The Fire and Water of Repentance
by Dicta Licence
Summary: Set after the movie Hannibal. Clarice Starling, no longer an agent for the FBI has created a new life for herself in New Orleans. But the return of a man from her past threatens to upset the balance she has so carefully tried to achieve. . . .
1. Chapter One

**The Fire and Water of Repentance**

Disclaimer: Tom owns all you recognise. Christian Venci, Malcolm St. John and Guillermo Ruiz belong to themselves. Their names have been borrowed to characterise the not-so-innocent. Portions of the first chapter were adapted from Phoenix14's unposted and (sadly) incomplete fic "A Murderous Mystery Tour." 

Author's Notes: This is primarily a love story. Or about as close an approximation as I can get to making it one. Hugs and Harpies to my one and only partner in crime(s). You know who you are.

**

_"The fire and water of repentance, adequate as they may be for eternity, cannot burn out or wash away the remorse of this life. __They scorch and choke,--and unless it be so there is no repentance."_

**The Prime Minister_, Anthony Trollope_**

_Riverfront Park, New Orleans. 4:00 a.m. Day 1._

_Can't beat the feeling of an early morning homicide, Officer Clarice Starling of the Lafayette Police Force thought wryly to herself as she got out of the black Ford Mustang and managed to step into a shallow puddle right beside the door on her driver's side of the car, drenching her left foot up to the ankle in icy water. _

Already the day was shaping up to be quite the bitch. Being unceremoniously dragged out of bed at four in the morning after putting in (unpaid!) overtime until well past midnight was not her idea of fun and neither was the not quite pleasant verisimilitude of having to deal with the already cranky denizens of the night shift made even crankier at the prospect of wading through more than the already enormous volume of their usual paperwork.

Too tired to even bother to curse, she walked, no, _dragged herself towards a group of people in rain slickers that were apparently huddled around something lying on the ground. The weather didn't seem to be co-operating with her either, as a light but steady drizzle fell from cloudy, still-dark skies, plastering her reddish-gold hair to her forehead and soaking through her dark blue windbreaker._

Time changes everything, but not everything changes with time. For Clarice Starling, it was her looks. She still possessed the same clear features and delicate bone structure that got her into trouble in the first place and caused her to become a near pariah at the FBI. All because she refused to sleep with a married man. Whoever said men were nothing like women clearly didn't know what he (she assumes the philosophical genius _was a man) was talking about. They bitched just as much, gossiped just as much and it was a proven fact that they held grudges twice as much. Oh well, at least Mr. Married was now rotting six feet under, courtesy of another, vastly superior male of the species who -somewhat unfortunately for her and her law enforcement career - had also developed a "taste" for her, so to speak. Starling supposed she should count herself lucky to still be alive with her all her chitterlings in their proper place. Given the superior male's more than questionable behavioural record . . ._

Shoving her way through the mostly male group, she wondered for the hundredth time if this was worth everything she gave up. After the fiasco of two years ago wherein she, then Special Agent Starling of the FBI, allowed one Dr. Hannibal Lecter, confirmed murderer of at least twelve walk free, the bureau had decided she was too much a liability and had let her go, but not before she handed in her resignation, beating a gloating and unapologetic Clint Pearsall to the draw. Still, for those five minutes, it had been worth it to see the look on Pearsall's face when he realised he had been denied the pleasure of sacking her. Oh yes. Very much worth it, indeed.

Starling ignored the annoyed stares she was getting from the crowd and moved closer to the body, lying face up on the muddy ground. One of the men, a non local law enforcement officer by the looks of the badge pinned at the front of his suit, shot her an cheesed off glare as she shoved him aside in order to get nearer the body.

Some of the local CSI, or lab jocks as they were derisively called within the bowels of the bland, ecru department cubicles had already arrived at the scene and cordoned it off with lines of yellow police tape.

The rain had turned most of the surrounding ground of the Riverfront into a gigantic puddle of mud, a fact that she was made even more aware of by the squelching sound her Caterpillar boots made with every step that she took. 

Thinking back to the other crime scenes she had worked in Washington, she thought amusedly to herself;_ I'd like to see them chalk the outline on this one._

"How long has he been out here?" she asked a tall, not unattractive man in his early forties who was talking to a reporter from the local news station.

"About four, five hours now. Chito there pegged the time of death at around twelve midnight." He pointed to an outlandishly dressed man with unkempt silvering hair standing about twenty meters away beyond the cordon of police officers and reporters. With him was another police officer with whom he seemed to be having a serious discussion with. As if he sensed he was being watched, Guillermo Ruiz, - Chito for short - turned to them and nodded curtly before ambling over with a slight limp. Starling noticed the cane he used to support himself when the terrain got too rough.

Flashes of camera lights blinded her temporarily and left her seeing spots for several moments. She reached out a hand to help the older man as he stepped over a marker, her thumb rubbing at the parchment-like skin at the back of his hand and glanced at the pale corpse through the dancing colours plaguing her vision.

"Morning, Richard."

"Officer Starling," said Ruiz warmly, clasping her right hand in both of his larger ones, an impressive trick, that, considering he had to balance himself on one leg and keep the cane from falling. "What do you make of this, eh, Cuffs?" his mellifluous voice regarded her with an almost paternal protectiveness that never failed to amuse her, considering the endearingly absentminded lab technician was the one who needed the protection, rather than her. 

"Cuffs" was a strange term of endearment - she had yet to ask him for its origins - the older man had given her when on her first meeting with him on another case, they exchanged mobile numbers. After he saved her number under Cuffs, to distinguish her from his niece Clarice (9 years of age) and another officer Starling of the Greater New Orleans Police Department, she had, in retaliation, jokingly added his contact number under the name "Richard," as in "Gere," the actor, with whom he bore more than a passing resemblance to, if only the actor had more intellect.

His light blue-grey-brown eyes were hidden behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and the hands that gripped hers were surprisingly strong, belying the eccentric harmlessness of his appearance. A faded white scar graced the back of his hand, near the nut-brown knuckles, a souvenir from one of his younger self's more unfortunate experiences with a mother razorback lurking in the swamps.

"No idea. You're the lab rat. You tell me." said Clarice, pushing aside a strand of wet hair that had fallen into her eyes and getting down on one knee for a closer look. The reporters with their cameras were still clicking away.

"There really isn't much that I can tell aside from the initial crime scene assessments. Male Caucasian in his early thirties. Direct bullet wound through the heart, powder burns and bruising at the site of entrance, shot at close range. They're still looking for the shell casings of the piece that did him in. Other than that, we'll just have to wait until the boys can get him back to the lab for the formal autopsy."

"So, who gets this one?"

"Night. Madrigal won't be too happy about this. He and those bastards on day shift have been trying to worm in on our crime scenes."

"Can't imagine why," said Starling. "You would think that they'd at least be a little grateful not to have to deal with the amount of paperwork we seem to get stuck with all the time."

Ruiz seemed to ruminate on this. "I think it's more a matter of pride and reputation," he told her after a few seconds. "We're a strange breed Officer Starling. Scientists. Mad, the whole lot of us. Completely mad. Or oddballs, if you prefer."

Starling gave him a plucky grin. "You could say that again," she gestured towards the Adidas football shoes that completely clashed with the brown of his slacks and that outrageously loud green Hawaiian shirt underneath a cream coat, looking rather out of place with the other Timberland or Caterpillar clad officers. "World Cup fever?" Ruiz let out one of his trademark cheerful-but-unreadable smiles. He hadn't shaved and a five-day growth of salt and pepper hair graced his pale cheeks.

"Chito!" one of the CSI hollered over the noise of the pelting rain. "I think we've got something."

"Will you excuse me for a minute," Ruiz said to Starling, turning and going over the body, where he and the young investigator were engaged in serious conversation. The young man showed him something he had fished out of the mud near the body, holding it out and unfolding it at the senior CSI with gloved hands and Ruiz narrowed his eyes, seemingly scanning something in the flat, square-ish object. He looked thoughtful, rubbing at his lower lip with his index finger before nodding his head curtly as the younger man dropped the article, whatever it was, in a clear plastic evidence bag. 

Ruiz shoved his hands into his pockets and slowly hiked up the small plot of slightly raised land where Starling was perched, observing the chaos of the scene somewhat detachedly. She glanced at him inquiringly, concerned at the drawn expression on the older man's face.

"It seems we have a problem," he said slowly, searching for words. 

"What's wrong?"

"Morris over there has found something of the victim's which was of some use in identifying him. His wallet."

"You did? Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that supposed to be a good thing?"

"In other cases, yes. But in this one . . .Clarice, it's Christian Venci," Ruiz wrinkled his brow, suddenly thrown deep into thought. Starling quickly scanned her mental archives, trying to place where she had heard the name before, wondering why it seemed so familiar.

"Oh shit," she exhaled. Christian Venci. Venci the notorious playboy and enfant terrible of the New Orleans theatre scene, Venci who seemed to be in several perpetually unstable relationships, Venci who had a different woman on his arm each time his picture was taken. Venci whose cooling corpse lay not fifteen feet from where she was standing. Not much of an actor, the bulk of Christian Venci's reputation had been based solely on the fact that he came from an affluent and old family, whose influence reached high enough to guarantee the untalented shiftless lout a permanent spot in the theatrical company. Apparently that same familial influence – however high - wasn't enough to guarantee the continued existence of its most disreputable scion.

A warm hand clapped onto her rain-soaked shoulder as a distinctly masculine voice purred into her ear. She jumped, turning to face the newcomer who was a tall, strongly built man in his late thirties dressed in almost similar attire as she, in thick boots and denim jeans.

"Morning, Starling," the newcomer said, his unusual eyes twinkling at her. Even in the semi-darkness their clear greenness shone as if God had taken the most perfect pair of emeralds from the deepest mountains and placed them into the eye sockets of the infant Malcolm St. John.

"You're late. How can you be late? Your apartment's just five minutes from here."

"They called me in after you?" ventured St. John, an unapologetic grin on his boyish face that still sported patches of rough, early morning stubble. His dark brown hair appeared almost black under the harsh strobe lights.

"Bullshit. Carl said he'd phoned you before he did me."

"Alright, I had company," he admitted, shrugging lazily and looking not in the least bit sorry. "It was a Friday night, you know. Some people have lives to lead, too."

Starling snorted derisively. "I should have known."

"Jealous?"

"Not in a thousand years," she promptly retorted out of habit, unthinking. The split-second expression of blankness and reminiscence that crossed her face passed quickly enough for the normally astute St. John not to notice. If he had, the subsequent inquiry would have dredged up enough unpleasant memories for Starling, of the one that got away.

"Dammit. Carry on, St. John," she told him abruptly, shoving the flashlight and periphery tape at his chest. "I need a hard drink," she said by way of explanation at his expression of perplexed surprise. She strode off away from the lights and throng of people, towards her car. Inside, safe from the prying eyes of the public, Starling slowly lowered her forehead onto the top of the steering wheel, leaning on it for a few moments before exhaling tiredly and repetitively slamming her head back onto it. 

It was a good thing the leather covering that came with the vehicle included a bit of rather thick padding.

**

Starling's apartment was located at the corner of Bourbon St. and Esplanade Avenue. Formerly used as slave quarters, the tiny motel had been completely refurbished into a series of sparse, but comfortable apartelles. Wrought iron metalwork on the terraces gave it a feel completely foreign and from a time long gone. Outside, in the early evening's sultry heat, waiters and musicians stroll to work in tuxedos. The velvet air is spiced with garlic cooking and gaslight glows against the spreading branches of the great oaks. The street itself is full of dogs, as practically all of its residents were belonging to the class of those who preferred an alternate 'lifestyle,' so to speak or are too old to have any children. Starling wondered which category her mostly batty neighbours placed her under.

She sighed as she balanced the stack of folders under her arm while her hands attempted to seek out the keys to all five locks, yet again cursing under her breath. She seemed to be doing a lot of that, these days. The Venci case caused a flurry of activity not seen in the precinct for a while, certainly the most amount of paperwork Clarice had handled since she started working at Lafayette.

Shoving the door open, Starling dumped the load onto the coffee table near the door, dropping her keys on top of it. The refrigerator was her first destination, taking an ice-cold Budweiser out of the freezer and placing it against the back of her neck. An old habit, one she found could remind her of her old life. Nasty things, these old habits. Always the little things that remain there to haunt you and remind you. Popping the tab, she tossed back half the can before slamming it down none too gently onto the Formica counter and going around it to the adjoining den of her three room flat.

Flopping onto the dirty beige couch she pinched the bridge of her nose in a miserable attempt at trying to stave off the impending headache. The phone rang, startling her.

"Starling."

"Hey, beautiful." It was St. John. The irrepressible golden boy of the Lafayette Police had, for reasons that still continued to defy her, taken an odd liking to the erstwhile FBI agent since day one and had thus been the only person who was permitted to approach her with anything other than the politeness of colleagues.

"Malcolm. What the fuck do you want?" she growled into the receiver, the angry throbbing in her head distracting her.

"Well, your royal grumpiness, me and the boys were out here at the Old Absinthe House and were wondering if we might bother you with an invitation of friendly camaraderie to join us for a long night of debauched drinking."

Another wave of mind-bending pain overcame her and she gritted her teeth to stifle the moan that threatened to creep out of her firmly shut lips. It's just a goddamn headache, Starling, you can deal with this.

"Hello? Hello? Clarice?" St. John's voice jolted her out of her agony and the pain slowly began to fade away.

"What? No, I'm here. Sorry, I've been having those migraines again."

"Again?" even though distorted by the miles of cable separating them, St. John was still able to convey the worry he felt. For this, Clarice was grateful and strangely, even a little annoyed. "But you've not had them since you first moved here. How long's it been? About two years?"

"Eighteen months."

"Ouch. She's been counting." 

"Every day I spend here is a living hell, especially with you making my life miserable."

"You forget, woman. I seem to be the only person who can stand that infamous Clarice Starling prickliness."

"Which simply proves that you're dumber than the rest," she quipped, momentarily relieved that the infernal throbbing had receded.

"No, not dumber. Only more persistent. So, what do you say? Come on over. You never know, it might be fun," he wheedled.

Clarice sighed. "Well, I was actually hoping on catching up on some sleep, but I'll drag my extremely exhausted and overworked behind over if it'll shut you up."

"Good, cos I was planning to keep on ringing you until you finally agreed."

"St. John, you are such a bastard."

"But a handsome bastard, at that."

"More like a damn annoying bastard."

"Whatever. You know you still love me. See ya soon, Goldilocks."

"And don't call me Goldilocks, you degenerate. You know how much I hate that--" the sound of beeping interrupted her in the midst of her attempted tirade. "Well shithouse mouse," she glared at the receiver. "Bastard hung up on me."

**

_Old Absinthe House, 238 Bourbon. 8:30 p.m. Day 1_

Ten minutes, six streets and two traffic jams later, Starling pushed open the door to the Old Absinthe house at the corner of Bourbon street and Conti. Nearly two hundred years old, the _entresol structure was built in 1806 first as a commercial-cum-residential building with a half-storey between the ground and first floors._

She found St. John sitting by the bar, looking slightly out of himself, nursing a quarter full glass of amber liquid.

"Where's everybody," she strolled up to him, setting her purse down on the new bar cut out of smooth, polished black stone. The original, its marble top scarred by water from the dripping absinthe faucets of old had been moved to another tavern further down the street.

"Home," he answered, tossing back the remaining amount of Scotch. He signalled the bartender for two more.

"They went home?" she repeated, fixing him with a puzzled expression.

"They were never here in the first place," he said thickly by way of explanation. "Catharine broke up with me, thought you might want to know," he rubbed at his eyes exhaustion apparent in his drawn features. "Said that she couldn't date a cop. I felt to too shitty to want to talk about it on the phone. Apologies for the subterfuge."

Starling placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "St. John, at the moment I'm not quite sure whether to slap you or feel sorry for you. Don't tell me this one actually meant something to you."

"That wasn't the point," he muttered, then brightened up, just the slightest bit.  "It's my _pride, woman," he grated. "We men are very egotistical creatures. We prefer to be the dumper rather than be the dumpee."_

"Who doesn't," said Starling sarcastically. "It's always a matter of beating the other party to the gun," _So to speak._

"If that's your analogy if it, no wonder nobody's been hopping in and out of your bed for the past two years."

"You know perfectly well I don't have a sex life. I haven't got the time."

"Well you should. Girl who looks like you . . ." he trailed off, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "I mean, when was the last time you actually got _laid_?"

"You are such a meddlesome ass."

"Comes with the job credentials. Besides, if I wasn't an ass, can you honestly say you wouldn't have walked all over me?"

"Point taken. I'm leaving." She grabbed her purse and jumped down from the stool.

"Starling," St. John went after her, grasping at her arm. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. Just please, sit down." He waved his hand at the drinks the bartender had just brought. "About bloody time," said St. John, tossing a twenty on the bar top and taking the two glasses over to one of the tables.

Malcolm St. John was from a fine old Creole clan that lived in the Old section of New Orleans, a place often associated with the _Mamaloas or Voodoo Priestesses of the city. His ancestors were originally from France and Spain, hence the well-deserved title of Creole, but over the centuries enough Irish blood had been infused into the gene pool as to gift St. John with those same mournfully boyish good looks his forefathers had been known for. That, coupled with an obscene amount of money in a trust fund that still showed no signs of even the minutest depletion ensured his place in society, with a future as secure as the city itself._

As a scion of such a respectable family, a lot of that old world charm had been bred into him, leaving no female within a 50-foot radius immune to it, and that included even the mercurial Clarice Starling. For the life of him, St. John could not understand her despite the (rather vast) amount of experience he had dealing with the fairer sex. It was as if the woman had a daily period or at the very least, perpetual PMS. But that had never stopped him before. He had dealt with enough females (and there were many of them) to have at least a vague idea of what to do when one of them got pissed at him (most of the time through his own fault).

He sat heavily on one chair and ran an elegant, long-fingered hand through his thick and very mussed up coffee-coloured hair, smiling apologetically. "So," he said cheerfully. "Wanna get royally drunk?"

Starling laughed, brilliant, unfettered and free. "St. John, you are some piece of work, do you know that?" she settled in the other chair, cocking her head to one side.

"Well, you were moaning something about wanting a hard drink this morning. Thought the offer might still stand."

"And the fact that you just got your ass magnificently dumped has nothing to do with it?"

St. John made a big show of placing his elbow on the table and resting his chin on the knuckles of his right hand. His face held an expression of exaggerated deep thought. "Nope, absolutely none." Starling smirked.

"Like I said, some piece of work. Alright, cowboy. Bring it on."

**

Pizza, Clarice Starling thought philosophically to herself, was just like sex. From what she could at least remember of the latter. When it was good, it was great. And when it was bad, well, it was still pretty damn good. She was stretched out on her couch with a mound of paperwork in front of her, and Malcolm St. John was on the floor, clutching at a bottle of Jose Cuervo, and with the other, holding a series of clippings about Christian Venci. The aforementioned circular pastry from Pizza Hut had long been devoured by the two, leaving only the deep-dish cardboard box and oil-stained wrap lining the bottom of the cardboard. There was a small mound of olives and another of onion rings piled up on separate corners of the box, like two combatants in a boxing ring. Starling didn't like olives, and the man detested onions. 

St. John stretched, yawned and rotated his neck while lethargically rubbing the back of it, causing a series of loud cracks and pops as the muscles and tendons were loosened, and the strain they had endured during the day slowly ebbed away under the stroking fingers. He blinked twice, trying to clear his red-rimmed eyes and yawned once more.

"Trying to catch flies, there, St. John?" Starling drawled amusedly, running a hand through her long red hair. St. John shot her a tired look, the slightest hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"At this ungodly hour?" he replied. "The flies are all asleep, my dear. I've decided to settle for some unusually large mosquitoes instead," he winced, slapping at his arm. "And it seems that if they keep this up, there won't be enough of me left for the flies to start in tomorrow." He flashed her a wry grin, scratching a particularly red area, which was already beginning to show signs of swelling.

"Truly a great loss to the female population."

"They'll just have to find some way to cope. Geez, I'm bloody tired." He remarked absently, pronouncing the word "bloody" the way only a true Englishman would. It intrigued Clarice how his accent seemed to be forever changing. One minute it was the soft slightly cadence of a well-bred southern gentleman, the next, some of his words would be pronounced in the sharp, clipped accents found in some Britons. 

"Hey St. John," she began. "Do you know you talk pretty funny? Like an Englishman who got lost in Yonkers or somewhere in its near vicinity. And you never did tell me much about yourself. It's always about work, work, and life in general."

"And you never tell me anything at all, period. Quid pro quo."

Starling's breath caught in her throat. "Excuse me?"

St. John yawned, seemingly indifferent to her sudden change in mood. "Look it up in the dictionary, beautiful. Something in exchange for something." He gave her a puzzled look. "I thought you majored in Psychology in college. Now, I'm no psychiatrist, but I'm pretty damn sure that what little I remember from Psych 101 involved a little discussion on Quid Pro Quo. There's your bit of info about my past. Psych 101, my teacher was a crazy old bat named Fabrizzio. Get talking."

"Wait a minute, how did you know about my majoring in Psychology? I don't remember telling you anything about that."

"Looked through your files," he admitted sheepishly. "Starling, Clarice M. Majored in Psychology and Criminology, University of Virginia, graduated Magna Cum Laude. . . I forget the year. That's pretty impressive, ma'am."

"How far did you read into it?" she rasped hoarsely, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"That was about it. Some pretty basic and general stuff, but there was this encrypted file I couldn't break into. Mind explaining that? I mean there was some pretty heavy hardware protecting it. Did you use to work for the CIA or something like it?"

"Something like it," she said dryly, recovering some of her earlier composure. "Don't tell me you wanna hear all about that."

"Let's save that for some other time, shall we? I get the feeling Cabbott won't be so pleased if we don't show him anything new with the case by tomorrow."

"Mmm-hmm," Clarice agreed wholeheartedly, unwilling for the discussion to be furthered. If St. John thought it was a bit odd she didn't press him for more details, he simply chalked it off to another one of her habitual mood swings. "Thank you for taking the time to go over these with me, by the way."

"My pleasure," he smiled sleepily at her. "Hey Starling?"

"Yeah?"

"D'you mind if I stay for the night? I really don't feel up for driving all the way to Jackson Square. Besides, the doorman at the Pontalba probably won't let me in. Rotten, slimy old bastard."

She raised a sceptical eyebrow, ruminating in her decision for a few long seconds. "All right. But you are taking the couch and not one peep of a complaint from you, mister. And if you should even think of trying to break into my room at around three a.m. I suggest you think twice if you still want children."

"You have my word. Scout's honour!" He flashed her a wicked grin, holding up two fingers in a parody of a Boy Scout's salute. "But does that mean I can break in at around four?"

Starling gave him a scathing look as she walked over to the closet near the door where she kept the spare sheets and pillows, tossing a particularly plump one at St. John, which he caught easily, giving her a challenging look that she ignored. While he was carefully trying to arrange the sofa into the position most comfortable for him, she took careful aim and tossed a thick, heavy comforter at his head, catching him unawares and knocking him over quite effectively.

"Starling one, St. John, nil." He leered at her from beneath the covers, outwardly unaffected. "I get the bathroom first, wise guy," she called out to him, making her way towards her bedroom and the bath beyond it.

"Do I get to watch?" he countered, pulling himself into a sitting position despite the fact that she could not have seen him anyway.

"Not that lucky, mister."

"Damn." St. John kicked his shoes off and lay down on the sofa with his hands entwined behind his head. He stared at the long, black cracks criss-crossing the white plaster of her ceiling, listening to the soothing flow of water from the shower.

He was asleep by the time Clarice Starling – who was towelling her hair dry – stepped out of her room in dark blue sweatpants and grey University of Virginia T-shirt. Starling tucked the comforter around his broad shoulders and rumpled his hair affectionately; the brief and slightly silly notion of how much its texture resembled duck fluff bringing a smile to her lips.

**

_Corner of Bourbon and Esplanade. 6:30 a.m. Day 2._

Hannibal Lecter narrowed his eyes. The tall man had been in Clarice's apartment the whole night and was now leaving early Sunday morning, before anybody else had gotten up to notice him go. Not only that, he was also looking slightly dishevelled as if suffering from the after-effects of too much "White Lightning" or something else altogether. He wasn't too sure he wanted to deal with the unpleasant concept of the latter, should he find that it had actually been a reality.

He watched as the tall man slung a rather crumpled yet still obviously well-tailored navy-blue jacket over his left shoulder, fishing some keys out of the right trouser pocket. Lecter found himself stiffening in anticipation as the man walked towards his direction, but relaxed as he veered away at the last minute, opening instead the door of a blue BMW Z8 that was parked right in front of Lecter's Jaguar. 

As the car started up and sped away, Lecter mused on the man thoughtfully. That was a rather expensive and dare he say, impressive automobile for a lowly policeman to own. Master St. John's background could bear some looking into.

It had taken him almost a year to find Clarice and another to plan for his new identity and his new life as a respectable southern gentleman. Unbeknownst to her, he had been following her new career with some interest, sometimes waiting it out with her on raids. But always, always careful that she would not see him. So he lurked in the shadows, contented and nourished by the sight of her. St. John had never given him a reason to worry. That is until the younger man had begun to show some signs of more than friendly interest in his Clarice. It was fine with him that the impertinent pup got to do things with Clarice that he never had a chance to if he wanted to stay out of jail, damn her sense of morality but that was where the line was drawn. Anything other than a purely platonic, nonsexual friendship and he might have something to deal with. For the cur's sake, Lecter hoped that he wouldn't pursue her. Maybe he was growing old, but he had grown rather attached to the man and amused by the antics he put on to draw those rare smiles from Clarice. Lecter frowned. How was it he was never able to make her smile like that?

Well, he did try to brainwash her into submission. Surely that was worth a few points deduction. Women. He snorted. Never would he understand them. He might see through their very souls, analyse what made them tick, but understand them? Not a chance. 

In that respect, Hannibal Lecter was as fallible as every other man.

He supposed he should have been a little irked that he was on everybody's most wanted list but hers.

**


	2. Chapter Two

See Disclaimers on Chapter 1. 

Thank you to all who reviewed! It is very much appreciated. I'm sorry for the delay but I have been very busy what with college and all. Anyway, here's chapter 2, I hope it doesn't disappoint. Dr. Lecter's computer is a winking nod to Mischa. **Chapter 2**

The antiques shop at the corner of Toulouse and Dauphine Street was slightly later in opening that morning.

Across the street from the Hôtel St. Marie, Robert Delacroix slid the key into the modernised lock made to look like a baroque piece and twisted it slightly to the side before giving it a little shake. There was a trick to opening it, he had discovered earlier, but despite that, the lock simply fit the building's façade so well that he could not have been bothered to change it even if he were so inclined.

Inside, Hannibal Lecter slid off the outer trappings and subtle mannerisms that characterised him as Robert Delacroix, dealer in fine arts and antiquities. He moves with the same characteristic feline grace, a dark panther amongst the shadows and silhouettes of sculptures and Ming urns. The mid morning sunlight streams in through the slats of wooden window shades, throwing the room into dim chiaroscuro.

It is interesting to note how little one has to change in order to establish a completely new identity. A bit of an adjustment here, slight embellishment there, and voila! A new persona. Robert Delacroix was not a man many would consider to be uncommonly good-looking. If anything, he was unremarkable in appearance, almost studiously so. If one would look carefully, they might be able to see beyond the slightly long-ish black hair (grown intentionally to hide his ears, a remarkably reliable physical feature almost as useful as fingerprinting when it comes to the identification of a felon) and perpetual five o clock shadow the basic facial shape of the psychiatrist, Hannibal Lecter.

He has had the collagen injections taken out from his cheeks and nose. The result is a near complete return to his old face, not much of a hazard, as the FBI is no longer on the lookout for _that_. They really should be more observant. Constant vigilance is a virtue long forgotten by those who believe themselves to be beyond such elementary instruction.

Dr. Lecter wears black contact lenses these days. He finds that lenses of any other colour are too noticeable and are easily seen even by the untrained eye. Black lenses on the other hand, hide his natural eye colour perfectly, the pupil blending in seamlessly with the lens in order to create an illusion accepted and unquestioned by most of his acquaintance and clientele.

The Devil is always  in the details.

We shall, dear reader for the benefit of Doctor Hannibal Lecter, refer to him as Mr. Delacroix for the duration of our visit to his address. It would not bode well for either one of us to make a slip and call him by his true identity, lest someone of consequence hear.

Delacroix sat himself before a massive mahogany desk, booting up an HP Omnibook in order to read through his e-mail for the day. 

There was one letter in his inbox. It was brief and to the point.

**From: "Doctor Faustus" cmarlowe@aol.com **

**To: dalighieri@yahoo.it **

**Subject: [no subject] **

**Date: Sun, 14:59:48 +0100 **

**As requested, attached are the records of Officers Starling and St. John. I hope they may serve whatever purpose you may have for requesting them.**

**Be sure this is what you want.**

**G.**

He smiled and clicked download attachment, spinning his chair around, as the files were stored into the laptop's hard drive. Modern technology had never failed to fascinate him. Nowadays, entire libraries could be compressed into a compact disk, whole books kept in a three and a half inch square of plastic, easily accessed by the touch of a button. Yes, man had certainly come a long way from the cave-dwelling savage he was said to have been. 

Delacroix drummed his fingers against the gold-tooled leather of the desk before beginning to compose a letter.

**To: cmarlowe@aol.com**

**From: dalighieri@yahoo.it**

**Subject: re: [no subject]**

**Date: Mon, 10:42:18 +0900 **

**Thank you for your speedy compliance in accordance with my request. Please make further inquiries on my behalf.**

**H.**

**

New Orleans Police Department, corner of Conti and Royal Street. 11:30 a.m., Day 4.

"I have a favour to ask of you," said St. John, strolling into Starling's cubicle late Tuesday morning. Blearily, she blinked her tired eyes, gesturing for him to take the only other chair in the cube before slumping over exhaustedly onto her forearms, which were crossed upon the desk.

"Done," she muttered into the faux wood top of the wide table.

St. John looked surprised. "That's it? Done. Just like that? You won't even stop to think about it?"

"If I said no, would it make a difference?" Starling retorted caustically.

He grinned unrepentantly. "Well, no," he admitted. "I'd simply nag and whine and beg until you gave in."

"Your three greatest talents."

"Of course. Why else would you have me listed as '_Bitch and Moan_' in your mobile? Denial is futile, I've browsed the phonebook."

"I rest my case," she said mordantly, looking up at him. "So, what is it?"

"We-ell, my family is having some sort of party in a couple of days. It's black tie, completely formal, with loads and loads of relatives and cousins up to God-knows-what degree of relation. As can be expected, there will be conversation. Lots of it, mostly with prying relatives wanting to know the status of my perennially unstable love life. I didn't bring a date for the last reunion and they're expecting me to bring one this time. That is, if I want to avoid being run through the gauntlet by my great aunt Margaret and her annoying matchmaking hobbies. And since Catharine sort of nixed me, I'm a little screwed."

"What does this have to do with me?" said Starling uninterestedly.

He gave her a look that spoke volumes. "Please don't make me say this."

For the first time that day, Starling laughed, thoroughly enjoying herself, "And why shouldn't I? It seems to me, you're going to have to do some begging if you're so desperate for a date to impress mater and pater St. John."

"I wouldn't call myself desperate, exactly. It's more like I need a date whom I like and can talk to and whom my parents can't exactly cow."

"Who would have thought? You, the infamous Malcolm St. John, a mama's boy."

"Not so loud, wench!" He smirked warningly. "You don't have to tell everybody."

"Bribe me."

"I'd much rather kiss you," said St. John, who suddenly leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers.

Starling was, for the lack of words, stunned. In her inability to speak, she instead found herself responding towards the languorously experienced movements of his lips against hers. Slow and spine tingling, she gave herself over to the sensation. Sexual repression is not an advisable state of body. Tends to mess with the mind. Otherwise, would she have allowed this to go on, in a confined cubicle with only flimsy partitions to separate her from the staring eyes of her colleagues during broad daylight? Conscience, scruples, ethics or whatever name you may choose to give it began nagging at her like a bad impression of Pinocchio's all-too garrulous guide. Well fuck it, Jiminy Cricket's just sprouted horns.

Oh, this man **knows** how to kiss.

He tasted like coffee with some faint traces of cigarette. Not her accustomed fave flave, so to speak, yet not quite unpleasant on the whole. His mouth was soft, yet firm, moving insistently and when she opened her mouth to allow him to slip his tongue inside, he lightly explored her, mapping the ridges of the roof of her mouth before suddenly pulling back, as if slapped.

"Shit. Shit, I'm sorry, Starling. I don't know what came over me." 

_Me, if you had kept that up_. She decided to keep that nasty little thought to herself_. _He brought his hand, which had been previously entangled in her hair to the back of his neck, rubbing nervously.

St. John was charmingly _cute_ when embarrassed. _What the hell, live a little, Starling._

"Sorry for what," Clarice asked innocently. 

He blinked once, twice and then smiled as understanding began to dawn on him. "So you aren't pissed, furious, enraged, indignantly protesting the impropriety of my conduct?"

"Come off it, St. John. The only reason I would have to be pissed at you is if you kissed like a goddamn Labrador Retriever." He looked offended.

"Glad to know you have a favourable opinion of my snogging abilities."

"Pardon?"

"Sorry, kissing. It's the Irishman in me, I swear."

"I see." She stared at him unblinkingly until he started to fidget.

"Pick you up at seven?"

"Hmm," she nodded noncommittally, slipping on a pair of glasses and beginning to peruse the report she had been working on before her impromptu siesta and unexpected _intermission_. 

With one last roguish grin, St. John about-faced and swaggered out her workspace looking for all the world like the cat who has finally managed to coax the elusive family Parakeet into its welcoming jaws. 

**

Ruiz's office at the basement of the station was by far one of the most avoided places in the building's history, to date. Walking through the drab and unattractively sallow hallway that led to a pair of heavy metal swinging doors, Starling was hit by a blast of icy air conditioning, slightly musty and bringing with it the odours from the rooms below as she descended the narrow staircase into the silent labyrinthine corridors of the sub-basement, where the mortuary was.

Lower still was the office of Guillermo Ruiz, a large, cluttered affair down the end of a long, light green passage where the sound of a dot-matrix printer cranking out a page per minute cut through the stillness like a blade.

His door was wide open as always and the man was sitting with his back to her, playing chess with himself. The tiny black and white television set at the corner tuned to a documentary about bees on National Geographic, small red letters at the lower right hand corner blinking: SILENCIO. Her glaze flickered absently at the formaldehyde-soaked beetle in a jar on top of the set.

Ruiz tapped distractedly at the wooden board with the base of a black pawn, his brow furrowed in thought. He heaved an unenthusiastic sigh.

"Go on, ask me about Christian Venci. You've been standing there for about," he checked his watch. "Two minutes and thirty-two seconds." Ruiz's black pawn toppled the opposing white knight and he laid the captured piece aside before re-setting the timer.

Starling raised an eyebrow for her own benefit, as clearly Ruiz could not see the expressions playing across her face. She tried to stifle the smirk that was trying its damndest to make itself known to her mouth.

 "Actually, I was just thinking about how to best declare my long-suppressed love for you and desire to bear your children, " Starling countered, sauntering easily into his office and perching a hip on the side of the massive grey desk laden with a veritable mountain of paperwork. "What do you say, Ruiz, run away with me?"

"Nice try, Cuffs. But no dice. Here's the autopsy report on Venci. Relatives claimed the body before any more tests could be done – damn the gods of money. Have a look at it, see what you think. Cabbot wanted it on his desk an hour ago."

She took the folder from him and settled into the big easy chair behind his desk. The springs protested under her weight as she leaned against the padded backrest.

"How did your evening with St. John go?" inquired Ruiz by way of starting a conversation. Starling hummed vaguely to herself, the sound of pages crackling together over the noise of the Epson. _Should have known the man would hear about it. Is there anything he doesn't know? And I thought the FBI had the mother of all grapevines_.

"It wasn't as productive as it could have been," she replied ambiguously, scanning down the page. Nothing new here. Direct bullet wound to the heart . . .   

Ruiz snorted, sliding the white Bishop a few squares northwest to capture one of the three remaining black pawns. "That isn't so bad, Cuffs. Just as long as it didn't turn into a _reproductive_ evening you've got nothing to worry about," he finished blandly, giving her and the chessboard a critical glance before taking off his glasses to polish them against the yellow fabric of his shirt. Starling felt a strange, prickling heat begin to bubble up and dance across the surface of her cheeks. "You're blushing," said Ruiz, squinting to adjust his vision, checking his lenses for smudged fingerprints by holding them up to the light. "Thought you might want to know."

She looked up and via the reflection from the three by six fish tank that indeed she was blushing. "Thank you for pointing out the obvious. Now if you would kindly get your mind of the gutter I'd - "

"Gutter? Hardly my favourite approach. Just not my style, kid. I'll leave such juvenile behaviour to you and St. John. I would, however, advise you to keep your affairs discreet."

Affairs? 

"Nothing happened," she told him quietly. Ruiz's shoulders tensed, then relaxed.

"Good. See to it that nothing does. St. John is –," he hesitated. "St. John is not a good man. What he is good for is fun and games. Games that leave one half of the temporary couple in tears. And trust me, it has never been Malcolm. You deserve so much better, Clarice. Outside of a working relationship, you are to avoid forming intimate attachments with him. Do I make myself clear?" He fixed her with a grey gaze, gauging the reactions she knew must be evident on her face. She swallowed.

"I will do just that," she turned her attention back to the report, thoughts far away.

Guillermo Jose Maria Ruiz was sixteen years her senior and, at fifty-one had established an adequate amount of tenure to guarantee him comfortable existence by sheer virtue of that awesome intellect. Most of the time, however, that brilliant mind was belied by the fact that he more resembled an overworked and underpaid desk jockey with a slight paunch respectable enough for a man of his years. Conversely, the opposite was quite true. Ruiz loved his occupation. Of that, she was certain. The older man and Clarice Starling had founded an unusual sort of rapport from the beginning, not unlike that of a mentor and pupil. Or of father and daughter. Starling discovered that in many ways, the older crime scene investigator had been a better friend to her than Jack Crawford. Not that there had been much room for comparison, anyway. If at one time Starling would have cheerfully killed for Crawford, she would willingly die for Ruiz. Lay herself on hot coals and keep very, very still until it was all over.

Her and his wife Lorelai lived in a sprawling, bungalow type estate on the outskirts of the city. Driving there, one day, six months after the "Chesapeake Incident" (as those in the bureau had come to refer to it) and her subsequent _early retirement_ from the FBI she found her nostrils tickled by the aromas of cooking catfish, her ears (sensitive after her years in service) picking up bits and pieces of gossip being shouted by neighbours at each other across the streets. For the first time – in a very long time – she felt at peace. In those days, Starling took normalcy wherever she could find it. Soaking up sensations of contentment like a sponge.

On that Sunday morning, Lorelai had been quiet, efficient and unobtrusive. The paragon of a perfect housewife. Over time, Starling learned that the petite woman actually had a formidable side to her. She and Ruiz had no children and at times, Starling felt that Lorelai Ruiz's unemployed maternal instincts spilled over onto her. 

"Have you gotten to the part about the bullet, yet?" Ruiz's voice sliced through her reminiscing. 

"Not yet," guiltily she turned her thoughts back to the report. _Some bruising on the spinal and thoracic area . . ._

"I think you'll find it rather interesting." 

_Hmmm. Semen on his the seams of his trousers and penis. Looks like he got off before he got off_. Starling snorted. _Now for the bullet. Wait a minute. What the_ – "Where's the bullet?"

Ruiz exhaled heavily. "That's what we can't figure out. There _is_ no bullet. Chest cavity's completely smashed in. Christian Venci was shot at close range. Probably with some very heavy artillery that could inflict the kind of damage it did."

"Could it have been a shotgun?" Starling asked.

"No. The lab didn't find any pellets or debris to suggest that."

"Maybe it was a .45 and somebody fished the slug out before they dumped the body. The body was dumped, wasn't it?"

"Venci was killed elsewhere, of that we are at least certain of. Morris and the boys didn't find any shell casings that could give us a clue on the piece that did him in. And yes, that was a plausible angle. It's the second thing we thought of."

"And?"

He let out a frustrated sigh. "It didn't pan out. Body showed no signs of interference and even if it had been tampered, there would have been some metal residue left. I take it they didn't teach you that in Washington," he added at her befuddled expression. "Metal, to be more specific, stainless steel – which most surgical instruments are made of – leaves little particles that just about qualify as trace evidence. Much like firearms. And unlike gunpowder, trace metal evidence lasts longer."

"The Palmer case."

"Exactly." Eight months ago, a businessman named Jonathon Palmer had been accused of killing his wife. They had found her body in the living room of the Palmers' three-floor mansion, shot in the back of the head. She had been dead over a week and thus, having brought her husband Jonathon in for questioning, he had tested negative for gunpowder burns. The traces of metal they found on his hands however, were a perfect match to the suspected weapon.

"Could they have used something else? Wood, Teflon, plastic, carbon steel?"   

"No, no, no and no. The carbon steel one was inspired, though. The others would have been too crude and cumbersome to use without leaving some internal lacerations that have nothing to do with the entry wound. Makes it easier to identify. As it stands, there's nothing. "

"Fuck."

"My sentiments exactly."

Starling's phone rang, emitting a shrill noise in the near deafening silence a few moments ago. The printer had long stopped churning out the piles of paper.

She checked the LCD. "Starling. Yeah, no I'm at Ruiz's office. No. Where are you? Alright, I'll be there in ten minutes." Starling gave Ruiz an apologetic look while she closed the folder and tossed it on his desk. "I have to go. Tripp is down at the Riverfront. Good luck with Cabott."

"Good luck with Tripp," he called after her.  "You'll need it," he muttered to himself. His white King captured the black Queen. The game had ended at a stalemate. Wearily, Ruiz reached across his desk and picked up the phone, dialling an all-too-familiar number. 

Ring.

Ring. Ring.

"Hello, Robert?"

**

Pontalba Apartments, 4.45 p.m., Day 4.

Starling waited impatiently as St. John undid the series of locks that would let her into his apartment in the Pontalba buildings. She had been caught in the sudden rainshower just as she was a block away from Jackson Square and thus stood there dripping on the hardwood floor outside of St. John's flat. There had been no doorman; apparently there never was a doorman. Fooled again. 

_That goddamn liar_. _He'll get his_. 

Finally, the clicking stopped and there were the sliding sounds of a bar lock being slid aside before the door was yanked open.

"Hi there," said St. John idly, leaning against the doorjamb in a posture that screamed languid insolence, white oxford shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows exposing the lean, tensile strength of his lightly tanned forearms. He wore no shoes; just a pair of denim jeans, green eyes raked her from head to toe, taking her in fully without leaving her feeling as if she'd been stripped naked.

She allowed him to take her overcoat off and drape it over one of the high-backed wooden chairs near the door. 

His apartment was full of books. Books on shelves, books on the floor, books on the kitchen table, piles and mountains of books, some of the stacks reaching all the way up to the high ceilings. There were lamps and sculptures and dozens of bric-a-brac littering the tables and counters of the large, airy room. Clarice looked at the man who lived in this veritable library-cum-antique-store-cum-bookshop, who was currently rummaging through a chest-of-drawers by the far wall, nearly obscured by the thick volumes of what looked to her to be a set of nearly antique Harvard Classics.

"Listen, you're soaked to the bone. Why don't you take off your clothes and I'll let them dry for a while. I have a washing machine and dryer. Of course I know how to operate it," he added hastily after she gave him a sceptical look. "If it'll make you feel better, you can go into my room to change. It's over there, behind the divider," he gestured vaguely to what was supposed to be a wooden shelving partition, stuffed to overflowing with more books and ornaments. As Clarice walked past him, he handed her something. "To uh, cover you up. That way you can't accuse me of being anything other than a gentleman."

"You read a lot?" Starling called out from his bedroom.

"That has to be the understatement of the century. If you entered that in a competition, you'd walk away with the Volvo."

Starling emerged from behind the pile of books that was his 'divider' swathed from head to toe in his blue silk dressing gown clearly several sizes too big for her. The thin cloth hid little from his imagination, sash barely holding it closed at her waist, revealing an almost improper amount of pale skin at the collarbone down to the shadows of her cleavage. St. John's breath caught in his throat. 

"Would you like something to drink? Something to uh, warm you up?" he stammered awkwardly.

"What have you got?" said Starling, walking over to one of the tables and picking up a figurine of a horse and rider. She looked at the marked stamped on the bottom.

"Gin. Whiskey, mostly. I have some Vodka, though."

"Is it cold?"

"Um, yes. I keep it in the freezer," he made his way through the jungle of books and jerked open the refrigerator door, the bottles on the side pockets clinking noisily together. 

"I lied to Ruiz today," said Starling, flipping through one of the leather-bound works cluttering a post war Jacques Adnet escritoire. It was clear that either St. John or its previous owners had kept the Walnut and chrome piece in good condition as the frame showed no signs of oxidation despite the unavoidable scratches on the Hermès leather. Dante's Divine Comedia. A 1909 edition still with its original bindings. "I thought you said you didn't read a lot."

"What is a lot," he said mildly. "What did you lie to him about?"

"I told him I was going to see Tripp down by the Riverfront." He took out a half-full bottle of Grey Goose and closed the door deliberately. St. John straightened up slowly before turning around to scrutinise her.

"Why?" Starling shrugged. Her attention was focussed on the scant bit of hair on his chest. There was a thin line of it beginning from his bellybutton leading down to parts unknown.

"Why doesn't he like you?"

"How should I know? I don't like him either." St. John took down two glasses from the shelf, placing them on the wooden countertop and pouring a more than moderate amount of the cold, clear alcohol in each glass. He handed one to her. "Don't think, drink." 

"Malcolm. Look at me," she said to him. "I've always liked Ruiz from the beginning, respected him and valued his opinion. I do not like lying to him. Why I did it, I don't even know. But I would like some answers."

"Why are you here with me, then?" 

"The Fingers Sisters lost their charm a long time ago. I want you; I figure you want me as well. If we keep this strictly physical and platonic, it might actually have a chance of working out for the both of us."

"You cannot have a strictly platonic physical relationship. It's a direct contradiction in terms"

"We cannot have what society considers a proper relationship. I have to make that clear to you."

"Why?"

"Because relationships, to put it indelicately, suck. Unless you have a sucking relationship. You suck hers, she sucks yours, everybody's fucking happy. Don't tell me you haven't done this before."

"I've never pretended to be a saint, despite what the name suggests," he cracked a wry grin, pouring out more Vodka into his glass and hers which she held out. "But I—you deserve much better than what you are proposing, Clarice."

She frowned. "Do you know that that is exactly the same thing Ruiz told me earlier?"

"Then Ruiz, in spite of being the asshole that he is, is a wise man."

"So you're telling me you don't want me?"

"Don't want you? I'd have to be even more of a stupid prat than I normally am to not want you," he strode over to her, grasping her by the arms. "Clarice, listen to me. I want you, make no mistake of that. But I am not willing to enter into some sort of clandestine affair with you unless--" 

She silenced him with a kiss.

**

_Pontalba Apartments, 12:45 a.m.  Day 5. _

Much, _much_ later.

She lay with him in his brass bed that was set in the middle of the somewhat cramped (in comparison to the rest of the apartment) room, directly in front of the wide open terrace doors, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the set-up of Pauline de Rothschild's London boudoir. St. John's lean, heavy form was currently draped over her, one leg holding both of hers immobile, effectively pinning her to the white Egyptian linen. He was stroking her hair, one arm wrapped around her waist, breathing in so deeply were it not for the steady movement of his fingers Starling would have been inclined to think him asleep.

The white curtains billowed overhead, dancing in perfect time to the currents of wind blowing into the room.  Everything about his apartment was either white, dark wood or metal with random touches of leather here and there. A man's apartment where all the contents had their proper places and purpose. Like her, St. John probably found order in the chaos that was his flat.

"You're going to end up breaking my heart," he whispered in her ear.

"I know."

One thing had to be said for Malcolm St. John. He moved fast. Or rather, _she_ moved fast, Starling reminded herself. _He wasn't the one that jumped **your** bones, girlfriend_. How does one turn from colleagues to lovers in the mere space of four days?

You make decisions and you stand by them. No matter what.

She got out of the bed, draping one of the sheets around her statuesque body to ward off the chill air of the night. Wandering over to the terrace doors, Starling stepped out onto the balcony, leaning against railings that had the initials A & P wrought into the iron and stared out at Jackson Square. It was past midnight. She felt her eyes drawn inexorably to a figure clad entirely in black standing by the lamppost, yellow light obscuring what features he had that were not hidden by the dark fedora pulled down nearly over his forehead. 

There was something familiar about him. The way he carried himself, the tilt of his head, the angle with which he leaned lazily against the post.

Impossible.

As she watched, the figure raised his head to look in her direction and brought one gloved hand up to the brim of his fedora, giving her a mocking salute. Dark eyes glinted from beneath the shadows of his face. Starling willed herself to believe that she had only imagined the reddish glint in them.

That better not be who I think it is.

Possible. 

Time to round up the usual suspects.

**

A/N: The term "Fingers Sisters" was taken from chapter 25 of Anna's story, Jewel of the Nile. 

"Impossible. Possible." paraphrased from Josephine Hart's novel _Damage_.   

Never fear, she's going to end up with the GD, you'll see! Please leave a review, tell me what you think! 

P.S. If anyone out there has been to New Orleans or better yet, _lives_ in New Orleans, please, e-mail me at **_Potionsbastard@yahoo.co.uk_**. I desperately need a consultant, as I have never been there nor anywhere in America.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter 3 

See Disclaimers on Chapter 1.

Thank you, thank you to all who reviewed. tourn, Jstarz927, Aikan, Cyranothe2nd, Give_Me_your_Coffee, JB, frylock, Fez, Horserider, Nanci, ladyoftruths, luna, hannibalcannibal85, Hanniballover1181, Lexa, MK, ForgottenWonder, ScreamingLamb, Neptican, AineDictaPig37, Steel, and Saavik. All your comments are very much appreciated. Honestly, you people keep me going.

Mischa – I want your computer. You know I do... Urrrr. And for your info, you bloody perv, Ruiz is NOT going to grab her thigh. At least not in this story. (wicked laugh)

Sihaya – Whoo-hoo! SS/HG forever! 

This chapter contains butchered quotes from Casablanca, Austin Powers, Genghis Khan and from conversations with my friend Irvin. I'm sorry for the monumental delay in the posting of this chapter. My pre-final exams were last week and I'm afraid they were of greater importance. But now, since all that hellish studying is over, on with the show!

**

_Pontalba Apartments, Upper Jackson Square. 12:46 a.m. Day 5. _

Clarice Starling was not a happy bunny. 

If anything, she was a _very_ pissed-off, rabidly _un_happy bunny. 

_Of all the lampposts on all the streets on all the cities in the world, he has to lean against the one outside my . . . my . . . my **I-don't-know-what**'s bedroom!_

She let loose a grumbling litany composed of a rather impressive array of curses that would have put any full-blooded sailor to shame, as she set about gathering her clothing and hurriedly putting them on. Her suit trousers were hopelessly rumpled, her blazer and shirt nowhere to be found. Starling grabbed St. John's white shirt and hurriedly buttoned it. The garment hung nearly to her knees, but she had no time to nitpick over such little grievances. He on the other hand--like the typical male whose idea of post-coital activity usually involved rolling away from the object of his lustful affections and going straight to sleep--had dozed off blissfully unaware of her present predicament on one side of the massive California King, sheets pushed down the slender waist, exposing the smooth, broad expanse of bare back. Nice. 

_Ugh, get your thoughts out of that direction, Starling, _she castigated herself mentally_. You have a possible cannibal outside your bedroom window. His bedroom window. What-fucking-ever_.

Draped across one of the brass bedposts was her beloved .45 in its leather holster, the latter a present from Lorelai Ruiz. Starling shrugged it on over the too loose shirt before taking the gun out and checking the exact number of bullets still left in the magazine. She slapped it back into the chamber and shucked it, ready for the unexpected.

And when it came to Hannibal Lecter, it _meant_ the unexpected.

Trying to get herself a life outside of the monotonous confines of celibacy was akin to Sisyphus' efforts in rolling his accursed rock up the mountain. Just as she had nearly reached the apex of the incline, some monumental fuck-up would come traipsing her way and thus effectively ruin things for her. Maybe she was cursed. Jinxed. After all, this _was_ New Orleans, land of voodoo and witch doctors. Spells and potions galore (for love, success, money or those devilishly tricky ones best classified as those otherwise used for their purchaser's own nefarious purposes) abounded in voluminous proportions at almost every street corner and back alleys of the Quarter and beyond. 

Maybe Lecter was just predestined to keep on coming back at her like a bad joke. Like the boomerang her cousin Maddie's daddy sent them from one of his trips to Australia. She and her brothers had spent many hours thoroughly enjoying uncle Ned's gift, throwing it high, high in the sky and watching the way it was spinning gracefully as it rode the currents of air. Clarice had been completely enthralled and fascinated by it, until one day she just threw it too hard and the durn thing just plumb hit her smack in the centre of her forehead. She hadn't played with it since. And now, now her own personal living, breathing boomerang was back for more fun and games.

_Life certainly can't get any bitchier than this._

From the bed, St. John rolled over onto his back, grunting a strangely adorable snort in his sleep, causing Starling to be hit with a pang of emotion she was far too busy to categorize, even if she wanted to. A final ruffle of that duck-fluff hair and a kiss onto his forehead, quick inhalation of the purely male scent emanating from that sleep-warmed skin and she was good to go.

With a final, wistful look, Clarice danger-is-my-middle-name Starling went a-charging locked and loaded into the depths of the night.

**

He was no longer at the post by the time she had run the single flight of stairs down the entry hall and out onto the steps of the stoop, nearly tripping over the sharp-edged cement in her hurry. She paused in the middle of the road, .45 raised and cocked, looking first to the left and then to the right for any sight of the dark figure that so rudely interrupted any further plans she might have had for their night by his mere act of leaning languidly against a lamppost. A movement out of the corner of her eye alerted her to the flapping of a trenchcoat as a man's leg disappeared behind one of the grand stucco arches of the Cabildo nearly all the way across Jackson Square.

Without thinking twice, she bolted at top speed in the stranger's direction, dimly registering the click-clack of her high-heeled loafers on the concrete, echoing off the walls of the buildings that lined the upper and lower sides of the Square. She raced past the shadows that crossed her path every few metres or so.

Starling rounded the curb and ran across Chartres. She did not see the black Camaro until it was two feet from her left hip. As she rolled onto the hood and down the hood, she thought of the empty oil barrels they kept rainwater in during her childhood, when Daddy was still around. She heard the hollow thumps the barrels made as she and her friends pushed them down the hill and chased after them with sticks. The sound her slender body made as it impacted the hood was like the sound of rolling barrels.

The sun was bright, so very bright, slicing through the inky blackness of her surrounding vision but it was already night. Her back was against something hard and rough. _Have I bitten through my tongue_, she wondered sluggishly. _Cos otherwise, why the hell can't I move it?_

There was a shadow above her, soft, cool hands taking her away from the rough pavement. Smooth fingertips brushed the hair away from her face. And that soft, hypnotic voice whispering one word into her ear as her rescuer picked her up and cradled her within his strong arms. His shoulder was solid beneath the soft wool of his coat, she noticed absently. Mmm, the subtle male scent of him, warm lips at her temple sending shivers up her spine.

"Clarice."

Lecter.

Then Starling was falling, falling into blackness so absolute it was like the cosmos before the big bang and whether time began or ended when the stars were created didn't matter as long as the black kept on spreading outwards, reaching velvet tentacles around the last flickering cones of her retina.

Oblivion was a wonderful thing.

**

Somewhere in the city. 9:58 a.m. Day 5. 

She drifted to the surface feeling like somebody had had a majorly _groovy_ mambo party inside her skull and left her to deal with the cleanup. Her temples throbbed unbearably and she was stuck with the proverbial feeling of cottonmouth. _How much did I have to drink last night anyway_?

_Oh, my head_.

_St. John—ohhhh_. She winced at the slight burning feeling near her ribs. _Wow. What on earth were we doing last night? Must have been one helluva kinky manoeuvre_. Her right cheek rubbed gently against smooth silk, a distinctly different texture to what she remembered of St. John's cotton sheets. Progressively, at its own sluggish pace, reality came crashing back down on her.

Lecter.

Eurgh. This is not good.

She struggled to sit up but was immediately prohibited from doing so by the strong grip of a hand on her shoulder. And there was that soft, silky voice again, dredged up from within the farthest recesses of her subconscious. A ghost of the past coming back to haunt her again like some endless chain letter that only seems to keep on ricocheting on its sender.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said the voice, the pressure at her shoulder increasing infinitesimally, just enough for the faint pulsations of ache to extend to her elbow and almost to her forearm. She opened her eyes, only to shut them immediately at the stab of pain that came with the golden sunlight streaming in from the windows. By the temperature of the sunbeams, she guessed it was somewhere around mid-morning. "Too bright?" the voice inquired politely. "Let me try and see if I can make you more comfortable."

And then the infernal blazing light was gone and the air felt much cooler. He's pulled down the shades. Starling cracked open an eye for confirmation and was met by the dark whirlpools of his as his face hovered mere inches from hers. She jumped back towards the pillows, hitting the base of her skull hard on the oaken headboard.

"Doctor Lecter," she croaked unsteadily, mouth suddenly dry. There was something different about this encounter from their last. Ah, her hands weren't bound. Lecter followed her nervously darting eyes as she unconsciously rubbed at her free wrists.

"No silk scarves today, Clarice. I didn't think you would appreciate it this time around."

Startled, Starling jerked her head up to look into his eyes. Eyes the colour of dried blood on a blade.

_Nice to see some things don't change_.

"What do you want from me, Doctor?" She eyed him suspiciously. Lecter made a big production out of sighing and settled back into the high backed chair beside her bed, steepling the tips of his fingers underneath his chin, elbows resting on his knees. Lecter's hair was longer than she remembered, cut unevenly and just about covering the upper quarter of his ears and spilling over his collar. All in all, he looked more relaxed than he had the last time she had seen him.

And damn, he looked good. Fuck. Where did that come from? Clarice shook her head slightly to clear her thoughts before she realised he was in the process of answering her question. 

" . . . That said, nothing is for free, Ex-Special Agent Starling. We of the medical profession as a rule exact a standard fee as payment for services rendered. Quid Pro Quo."

Fee? 

"And pray, what form of payment would you exact for your…services," she enquired cautiously; pitching his very own words back at him. Lecter smiled wolfishly, displaying immaculate white teeth. She tried not to shudder at the thought of what those teeth _could_ and _have_ done.

"Lunch, Officer Starling, lunch. Next Sunday, if you please. Meet me at Galatoire's, twelve o'clock noon. Be on time. I have never found myself to be capable of tolerating tardiness, which is not that radical departure from rudeness. I'm sure I do not need to jog your memory on how insufferably rude I find unpunctuality to be. What say you, Clarice?"

"Lunch?" she echoed incredulously. "That's all you want from me. Lunch?"

"I apologise. Would that be an inconvenient time for you? I could make other arrangements," he offered, standing up and lifting the nearby phone off its cradle. Odd that she hadn't noticed that it was there before. Too much terror probably.

"Not at all," she assured him hastily. "Lunch is perfectly fine. It's just that I was rather taken by surprise at your request."

_Not to mention shocked out of my bajeesus. You askin' me for a date, doc?_

Lecter chuckled indulgently, setting the receiver back down. "What did you expect me to ask of you, then, Clarice? Monetary compensation? Your eternal soul, perchance? Not much of a market for that sort of thing, these days. As my finances are far from being strapped, the former isn't much of an option. But your body . . . that might bear some discussion into . . . " he trailed off, inwardly laughing gleefully at the sudden panicked expression that crossed her face. But beneath that amusement, there was just the tiniest pang of something he didn't care to identify at the moment. Poor girl. He really should do something to alleviate her alarm. Pity he was feeling rather mischievous today. 

"No! No way, José. There isn't the slightest chance in hell that you are going to get that out of me, I'd rather--"

"Burn in hell? Burst into flames? Jump into a pit with a dozen half-starved lions? Even perhaps suffer another stint at the Eff-Bee-Iii?" he taunted her. Starling narrowed her eyes, and without explanation burst into sudden laughter.

"Oh, Doctor Lecter," she said to him when she had sufficiently recovered from her abrupt attack of mirth. "Why were you never this funny before?" He shot her an odd look.

"It was not my intent to make you laugh, Clarice. Although perhaps it seems to have done you a whole lot better as opposed to angering you. Really, threats can get so tedious after a while, don't you agree, Clarice?"

"Especially since they never seem to work on me."

"Yes, there is that. Returning to the matter of you body--"

"Oh no you don't. Don't even think about it, Doctor." 

"It seems that at the present, thinking is the only thing I can do about it. After all, you have given me the impression that it is, in fact, currently being promised to someone else. Would you deny it, just to mislead me?"

"You leave him out of this, Doctor Lecter."

"I would not want you coming to me reluctantly, Clarice. Either you are mine out of your own volition or you are not mine at all."

"You wouldn't happen to want that in blood, would you?" She retorted wryly, rubbing at the slight bump now forming underneath the skin of her head.

"Ah, now there's a thought."

"Funny."

"I don't suppose now would be a good time to ask why you are not currently warped in fits of laughter if you find this situation to be so humorous."

"It's just—it's just everything is so damn surreal. I mean, here I am, alone in a room with Hannibal Lecter. It should feel like Chesapeake all over again, but somehow it just . . . doesn't."

"I believe it has been said that time washes away all wounds." 

"Apparently, time causes you to spout worn cliché's as well," Starling grinned indolently. "Bottom line is—surreal," she shook her head, surveying her surroundings. She found that instead of looking for a means in which to attempt to extricate herself from this situation, she was instead merely giving the 'scene' a once-over so to speak, checking out his 'digs'.

They were in a relatively small bedroom, simply but sumptuously appointed with the understated sort of elegance found in dark oak furnishing. Faded wallpaper in an autumn leaf pattern graced the walls, its design obscured by years of dust and damp, patches of it blurred by a yelow ochre outline where the water had seeped through cracks in the plaster. 

"Should you decide to continue your noticeable perusal of your current location Clarice, you would find it a waste as I have checked us into a quaint little hotel quite near your unfortunate accident with the Camaro. Not quite up to my usual standards of preference, but adequate enough to serve my purposes as of last night. If you wish to open the window, you would be able to see Officer St. John's apartments from this vantage point."

She watched him sullenly as he stood up from the chair he had pulled to the right side of her bed where he must have kept vigil over her last night. He pulled on the dark trenchcoat whose flapping had initially alerted her to his whereabouts and plopped on a dark fedora, tilting it rakishly to one side and smiling down at her.

"The sheets are mine, of course. Feel free to do with them, as you will. I shall be expecting you this Sunday, Clarice." Hannibal Lecter gave a mock two-finger salute on the brow of his hat, audaciously winking at her.

And with that, he walked out the door. 

Clarice couldn't help but ask herself exactly why she wasn't really that much bothered by the fact that he hadn't walked out of her life as well.

**

Hallo. I've decided the third chapter was too long for me to post in its entirety, not to mention the second half needed some cleaning and proof-reading. It should be up sometime this week. Hopefully. Once again, thank you for reading!! 


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter 4 

See Disclaimers on Chapter 1.

A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed! Gawsh, I'm really quite overwhelmed by the response to this story because when I started it, I had no idea anybody other than me and my two best friends (namely myself and I) were interested in reading it. Once again, thank you so very much.

This chappy contains butchered quotes and lyrics from Bloodhound Gang, Noel Gallagher (I'm seeing Oasis next week!) and the many lunatics I am sort of proud to call my friends. I meant to post this much sooner, but ran into some problems, so I've decided to incorporate chapter 3.2 into chapter 4. Here goes nuthin'.

**

The world doesn't just disappear when you close your eyes, does it? Guy Pearce, _Memento_

New Orleans Police Department, corner of Conti and Royal Street. 1:15 p.m.  Day 9. 

St. John wasn't talking to her.

She'd tried calling him at home, on his mobile, stopped by his desk several times in four days. Still not a trace of hide, hair or even shadow of him. It was Monday, six days til' Sunday. 

St. John was clearly doing his damndest to avoid her.

The only positive outcome of this – if in fact there had been any – was that it at least proved her latest theory to be accurate and indubitably correct. Absence apparently does _not_ make the heart grow fonder. As if she didn't have enough problems in her life without that insufferable man's infantile tendencies towards throwing temper tantrums adding further complication to an already tricky tightrope-trotting stunt.

For the fifth time that day, she stood outside his cubicle, leaning against the partition in an attempt to compose her thoughts and delay the inevitable.

His head jerked up at the sound of her entrance and he stared blankly.

"Can I help you?"

What's this? He's actually being polite? Is sex the new obedience wonder drug? 

"Actually, yes. You wouldn't happen to know anyone by the name of Malcolm St. John, would you? He's about six-feet-two, brown hair, green eyes, snarky as hell? See, he's been avoiding me for the last two days after shagging me senseless and I haven't the foggiest idea why. Must be a male thing. Would you mind explaining that?" 

He rolled his eyes and folded his arms over his desk with aggrandized serenity. "Spare me and get straight to the point." Like a charging bull, Clarice saw red.

"What the fuck is eating you, St. John?" she demanded; slamming both hands palm down on the tabletop and ready to beat the living daylights out of him. Was that a ghost of a smile she saw at the corner of his mouth?

"I believe _you_ were, a few nights ago if I remember correctly." Starling felt her cheeks go up in flames in fond and more than delightful recollection of that particular manoeuvre.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that you can still make bawdy jokes. Seems that's all you can do. What's wrong?" He didn't answer, merely drumming his fingers on one of the arms of his chair. "Are you avoiding me?" Still no answer. "If you're going to be a jackass, at least don't be a mute jackass. Fine," she sighed. "One tap for yes, two taps for no," Starling spoke to him very slowly as if dealing with a backwards infant, placing one of the pens littering his desktop in his hand and demonstrating with exaggerated patience. Tap. Tap. He blinked and threw the expensive, gold-plated Schaeffer at the wall in front of him, face twisted in barely controlled fury and frustration.

"Why did you leave," he growled under his breath, shoulders quivering in carefully leashed anger. Starling knew the power hidden in the muscles underneath that finely tailored shirt. She had in fact been subjected to it several times over the course of six hours a few nights ago, as he strained above her to reach the climactic (in more ways than one) point of their wordless but by no means noiseless discussion. The frisson of immodest reminiscence creeping up her spine left her struggling for coherent thought, broken only by the thought's motivator waving his oh-so-fine hand in front of her eyes. "Starling? Earth to Clarice? Starling?" Her head jerked back in response to her mind being dragged out of the gutter and back into reality.

"Er, sorry. Lost in space for a few, there." 

_Does my face look as hot as it feels_, she wondered silently to herself.

"You look turned on," he said matter-of-factly. As sudden as it had appeared, the fury had gone out of his eyes to be replaced by unabashed appraisal.

_Thank you, but that was a rhetorical question. Whatever happened to the days when men were unobservant pigs?_

"I probably am." Starling winced involuntarily at the sound of her voice. She had been aiming for offhandedly careless, not unmistakeably aroused.

St. John grinned in self-possessed satisfaction, "My mother was right. It's the quiet ones you always have to watch out for."

"What else did she tell you?" 

"Things. Clarice," he began hesitantly. "The other night, it wasn't just beer goggles, was it?"

"I thought that was only applicable to males."

"Must be a hybrid strain of it."

"Sure. That explains a lot."

"It probably wasn't."

"You're sure?"

She gave him a smile, as brilliant as the sun. "I'm positive."

"Are we alright, Clarice?"

"We're alright, St. John."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, focusing his attention on the pen he held in his right hand.

"And apology, from you?" she cocked a sardonic brow.

He grinned gamely. "Enjoy it while it lasts, woman. Have you eaten lunch yet?"

"As a matter of fact, I haven't."

"Wanna go out?"

"Where?"

"Depends on what you're having."

"Well, I'm feeling rather generous, not to mention guilty right now, so I'm having whatever you're having."

"Excellent."

"Why's that?"

"Because I intend on having you for lunch," he leered rakishly at her before getting up and proceeding to tug at her slender wrist with his much larger hand. Laughing, she allowed herself to be hauled out of her chair and led out of his cubicle, oblivious to the incredulous and more than curious stares they had garnered from their colleagues.

**

_Galatoire's, 209 Bourbon. 12:30 pm. Day 15 _

She had debated, she had deliberated, she had contemplated, but in the end, Starling decided to meet Lecter for lunch after all. 

She was running late, having to deal with the unavoidable mountain of paperwork involving the Venci case. Malcolm had been conveniently kept occupied by a lead one of his sources had phoned in earlier that morning. However, he had been able to shout a dinner invitation to her before walking out the door. Knowing him, he had probably taken her bewildered silence as a yes. 

So here she was, standing in the middle of a fancy restaurant filled with high-falutin' ha- ha's staring down the edge of their rhinoplastied noses at her lost expression, her choice in clothing (a simple pair of black slacks and blazer over a plain white shirt with a scarf looped around her collar for a bit of emphasis), her being all alone and the fact that, no matter how hard she would and could try, she would never really belong there with those society tarts in formal dining gowns and their brittle, boring spouses/lovers/fiancees/unnamed males that had an all-too-brief place in their monotonous lives.

She couldn't blame them. Starling had had to elbow her way past the long line of quiet, formally-dressed people that extended past the corner of the block.  That in itself was not an unfamiliar sight as the cue of hungry residents and tourists was ever present on any day of the week save Mondays, when Galatoire's closed its famously snobbish doors to the public. And for the life of her, Starling could not understand what the big deal was with the place. With the absurd (in her own opinion) policy that refused to accept cheques and credit cards, dining there certainly was out of her price range. But hell, she never claimed to understand the rich anyway. Why can't these people make reservations instead of standing outside the muggy sun the whole afternoon, she mused to herself then remembered something St. John had casually told her a while back. The restaurant did not accept reservations. That had to be on of the stupidest things she had ever heard. Really, it was a miracle the place managed to survive with all its asinine rules and regulations.

Starling made her way up to the doorman, who, having given her a single cursory glance, was almost inclined to turn her away before she convinced him to change his mind. Starling smiled to herself as she tucked in the Lafayette Police Department badge she had flashed the surprised maitre d' into her right jacket pocket after the little man had twirled his pencil thin moustache at her and grudgingly let her in, immediately causing a cacophony of protests from the other patiently waiting patrons. Starling didn't blame them. If he hadn't let her in, she had the feeling she would have slugged the pompous jerk senseless.

She spared a fleeting glance at the ceiling fans with their dark wood blades lazily revolving above the mirror-panelled room and scanned the crowded bistro briefly before spotting him sitting at one of the corner tables, almost entirely hidden by the broad leaves of a potted palm. 

He had apparently been waiting for some time, judging from the half-full glass of scotch sitting in front of him, the ice having shrunk to the size of a quarter. Lecter was quite the dapper figure in a beautifully cut three-piece black suit under which was a silvery shirt of a fine material Starling could not identify from where she was standing. A black silk tie and a diamond stickpin completed his attire, the jacket opened and the tie with its delicate patterns tucked into the vest underneath.

Starling noted that he chose his jewellery and accoutrements carefully and sparingly with only a simple gold ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. He had no wristwatch and was looking at a solid gold pocket watch in the palm of his right hand, the chain looped through the specially tailored slots in the vest. Starling cleared her throat to announce her presence and he quickly snapped it shut, flashing her a brief, irritated glance as he tucked the watch away. He stood up and like the gentleman that he was, helped her into her seat before resuming his. They stared at each other in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.

"You're late," he stated unequivocally in a tone that brooked no argument. "Is this another one of those deplorable habits you've picked up in the South, Officer Starling?" There was just the subtlest hint of emphasis on the word Officer, as if to remind her of her million-mile fall from grace, but it was enough to get her hackles up.

"For your information, doctor," she bit out. "I was delayed because of developments in the case I am currently working on. Forgive me if punctuality in this already unwanted meeting comes second to doing my job well." She relaxed. "That said, I'm sorry. In truth, I was too caught up with the paperwork to notice the time. Have I kept you waiting long?"

The corners of his mouth twitched in the briefest hint of a smile. "Long enough for me to begin to wonder if you hadn't reneged on our assignation."

"Reneged? Assignation?" she raised one eyebrow with a touch of humour. "You make lunch sound so Victorian and so. . ."

"Romantic?" he ventured with an arch grin. 

"I was going to say illicit," she corrected. "But considering the difference in our. . . standings in the social roster, _illegal might be a more apt adjective."_

"Oh, you mean the fact that I am an expatriate member of high society while you to it were a near _persona non grata more involved in the gritty, judicial aspect of the enforcement of laws?"_

"If what you mean is that you're a cannibalistic mass murderer, wanted in three continents - never mind that you're rich as hell - and I'm the former FBI agent who was supposed to clap your sorry ass in jail, then I guess you're pretty damn right."

"Do say that a bit louder, Clarice. I don't think the people at the other table quite heard all of your charming imprecations."

She folded her arms and glared at him like a petulant child.

He sighed resignedly. "Why must you always insist on making things so difficult for the both of us?"

"Why must _you_ always insist on making things so difficult for _me_?" she snarled back at him, not pacified in the least by his momentary acquiescence.

"Clarice," he began, but seemed to change his mind in mid-sentence and instead looked away. She placed a hand on his forearm, prompting him to meet her gaze.

"What is it," she asked gently. That spot of reluctance in the doctor's normally impeccable armour was enough to touch off some faint reminder in her mind that despite all evidence to the contrary, Hannibal Lecter was also a man. Imperfect as all men are, mortal as all men are. Sparks of something, an emotion perhaps that she could not ascertain were pinwheeling in the fathomless depths of maroon.

"You do know I would not force you into anything against your will, don't you?"

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Whether you may or may not realise it, I could quite easily eliminate my competition. Do stop that," he said, waving off her suddenly icy glare with a careless movement of one elegantly formed hand. "You haven't let me finish. As I was saying, young St. John is but a mere pup in comparison to a man of my. . . capabilities," he amended before taking another sip of his scotch. "So you can stop waiting for Prince Charming, Clarice," he told her irritably. "Cinderella's already got him."

Starling sputtered in disbelief at his absurd analogy, giving Lecter sufficient time to continue with his deconstruction. "You've oft accused Agent Mapp of being more in love with the idea of being in love when you haven't been able to bring yourself to let go of your childish fantasies and foolish dreams of a perfect love."

"And what makes you the leading expert on that, Doctor Lecter? I wasn't aware that running from the law was conductive to long and lasting relationships."

"It can be a hindrance, I assure you. But nothing is impossible when you put your mind to it. Especially when the enticements are quite . . .persuasive."

Starling bristled. "So? Are you implying that you have a girl in every port?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you're quite beautiful when you're jealous?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you're insufferably arrogant?"

"There _were one or two brave souls," he grinned wolfishly, hidden hints of mischief and secrets dancing behind those dark, dark eyes._

"And they were never heard from again. . ." Clarice trailed off, in manner of a world-class storyteller - a.k.a. resident rumour-spreader - relating a well-known and much-revised urban legend for the amusement of her throng of vapid classmates, eagerly hanging onto every word.  

To her surprise, Dr. Lecter chuckled. "My, my. It seems that the little Starling has acquired a sense of humour. That is vastly relieving, my dear. I was beginning to worry about your state of mental health. Always good to have a bit of fun." She shot him a look that could incinerate ashes further. 

"Well," he said, smiling brightly. "Shall we order?" he glanced up at one of the waiters who hurried over with a menu.

Starling nodded curtly and took the time to really notice her surroundings. The intimate, 140-seater restaurant had rearranged its seating to resemble a salon more than a dining area and groups of New Orleans' high society were spread evenly across the room's wicker chairs. Some of the same ladies who had given her the once-over earlier were now flitting from table to table, giving each other that inescapable society ritual of the air-kiss and exchanging banal conversations on a myriad of topics as well as the latest - and therefore the juiciest - bits of gossip and scandal.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the elusive Robert Delacroix," a decidedly female voice purred in their direction. Dr. Lecter looked up from his browsing the menu to address the red-clad body that came with the decidedly female voice with friendly yet slightly clipped tones.

"Hildegarde. A pleasure to see you, as always." Hildegarde gave him a sugary-sweet smile that left Starling wondering when and if ants would start raiding the place.

"Robert. You naughty, naughty man," she cooed. "Where have you been all this time and _who is your charming companion?" Lecter blinked at her, slightly appalled. "Oh, go on, Robert. Do be a dear and introduce us," she blathered on, seemingly oblivious. _

Dr. Lecter gave Clarice an exasperated look as he slowly stood and motioned for her to do the same. "Mrs. Hildegarde Illich, I would like to introduce you to my. . . acquaintance, Officer Clarice Starling of the Lafayette Police Department. Clarice, Hildegarde Illich. Her husband is Jonathan Illich, of Illich steel. I'm sure you've passed by one of their factories at the Riverfront at some point. Clarice is working on the Venci case and as a matter of fact, nearly forgot all about our lunch _date," he glanced at her pointedly with just the littlest twist of amusement at the corner of his mouth._

"Oh dear. Terrible about what happened to poor Christian, don't you think?"

"Did you know him?" inquired Starling, trying her best to engage in polite chit-chat with the odious woman, all the time trying to ignore the fact that Hannibal Lecter looked ready to burst out laughing.

"Not so very well, I'm afraid. But I knew his mother, God rest her soul. He came from a very fine family, Christian did. Although," she sniffed disdainfully as if the deceased had left a bad stench in the air, "His choice in companions did leave something to be desired." Hildegarde Illich gracefully – which was quite a feat considering her stature, which more closely resembled that of a pachyderm than a human being – manoeuvred her adipose derriere into the seat that Dr. Lecter had previously vacated to which he narrowed his eyes in distaste yet merely stepped back to pluck an unused chair from the miraculously empty table nearest the potted palm that almost but not quite completely hid them from view.

Starling hesitantly sat down, glancing at Dr. Lecter - who had pulled up to the table - for encouragement, at which he merely nodded, assuring her that everything was going fine and that she had not quite made an ass of herself just yet.

"But enough about Christian. Lordy, we should let the dead have their rest." Her jocose laughter grated against Starling's ears and, from the slight shutdown in Doctor Lecter's appearance, his as well. "Tell me all about yourself, my dear. However did you and our dear Robert meet?"

She opened her mouth to tell the insufferable woman to go and shove 'their Dear Robert' up where the sun don't shine, but was forestalled by the doctor who had taken it upon himself to reply, no doubt sensing her pique. Trust the man to be only truly sensitive when it comes to safeguarding his interests. After all, it wouldn't exactly do to have his lunch companion suddenly blurt out to one of the biggest gossip queens this side of the Mississippi that they had made their acquaintance somewhere down the dark dungeon-like recesses of a Baltimore madhouse. Not to mention his face (or rather, former face, three surgeries and two continents back) was still prominently plastered onto the much-frequented website of her erstwhile employers.

She struggled to compose and answer to that without giving too much away, hoping that the deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression of surprise bordering on frantic thinking was not evident on her face. Starling had a very bad feeling that this Hildegarde Illich was a very good assessor of human reactions, a skill honed after spending a lifetime with liars, snobs and the plastic people who made up "her" class.

"Is something the matter, my dear?" Illich was looking down at her with not quite genuine concern and perhaps a little malice. 

"I – uh, er . . ." Funny how speech tends to desert you at the most inopportune times.

"We met while she was working on another case, Hildegarde," Lecter cut in smoothly. "Officer Starling here required my services as a consultant for a murder she was investigating. Seemed that the suspect she was looking for was into collecting . . . _trophies_."

"Really? How odd. I've never heard of anybody collecting antique trophies."

"Well, now you have," Starling blurted out in an incongruously upbeat sing-songy tone of voice, before slapping her mouth with her right hand in a childish gesture to stop the onslaught of giggles that bubbled from the back of her throat.

Sighing, she settled back into the chair like and errant child and steeled herself for an afternoon of boredom.

Lecter smiled reassuringly at her. Starling was reminded of the crocodile in Disney's Peter Pan. Now she knew how poor Captain Hook felt whenever the green, tick-tocking bastard grinned at her.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

**

Starling's Apartment, Corner of Bourbon and Esplanade, 8:41 p.m. Day 15 

"Hello, it's Malcolm."

Clarice Starling smiled into the receiver, hitting Ctrl+S to save the file she was currently working on and reached upwards to interlock her fingers, stretching and leaning against the backrest of the gaslift computer chair. The pale blue glow from the monitor was reflected in the convex lenses of the pair of glasses perched on her nose. 

"Mmm. Hello." The low, resonant voice at the other end chuckled.

"My, you sound tired. Rough day?"

"Could've been better," she replied, thinking back to her afternoon with the Doctor. The woman had been insufferable. Luckily, twenty minutes after Illich had sat down, she was distracted by one of her society cronies and thus had left Lecter and Starling to their own devices. She wasn't sure which was worse. "So, what's up, Cassanova?" Starling rotated her neck slowly, feeling the bones and muscles pop.

"I'm bored."

"You're always bored. Tell me something new. Surprise me."

"Well, I'm calling about dinner."

"Mmm. Sounds like fun. Do go on. Whatcha feel like doin'?"

"I feel like dancing. There's this great Jazz club near your place. I know the owner. Still want to keep a lonely devil company?"

"Depends. You wouldn't happen to know the lonely devil's name, would you?"

"Christ, lady. You're too sharp for me. Some other time, then."

"Alright," she said nonchalantly. A click at the other end then the steady hum of the dial tone. She replaced the cordless phone into its charger. Seconds later, it rang again. Starling grinned as she picked up the phone and hit the "talk" button. "Pick me up in twenty minutes, Diablo."

"Clarice?" A silken whisper, smooth as honey and twice as compelling snaked its way from the earpiece to her eardrums, short circuiting her already languorous brain cells. What happens to the fly once it gets caught in the honey? It dies.

"Dr. Lecter."

"Dare I hope that by your tone your opinion of me has improved? Although I would much rather prefer to be called Hannibal, it is perfectly fine with me should you wish to address me as Diablo. After all, there is always a first time for everything."

Uh . . . uh . . . oh, shit. Fuck, fuckety, fuck!! 

The telltale beep of call waiting alerted her from her state of automatic shutdown her cerebrum was experiencing at the moment. "Uh, Doctor, I'm afraid I have to put you on hold," _Smooth, Starling, real smooth. They're gonna give you an award for that one._ Without waiting for his reply, she quickly hit the line 2 button, forgetting in her semi-panicky confusion to divert Lecter's call.

"Gorgeous." Right caller this time. Unless Doctor Lecter had suddenly developed a talent for ventriloquism, there was no mistaking St. John's deep baritone purr.

"Um, hi?" She was aware of how stupid that sounded. _Jesus, Starling. Twice in one day. Mama always said never to juggle. But damn, it's kinda fun. _

_Kinda._

"You, woman, definitely do not sound alright. Is something the matter?" _Damn! How does he do that?_

"You wouldn't happen to be psychic, would you? Because if you are, I hate psychics," she grumbled irately, sneaking a glance at the digital clock on top of the monitor. She'd kept the doctor waiting for half a minute, now.

St. John laughed. Oh, how she loved his laugh. That sound, deep and mellifluous, almost melodious, really yet still very distinctly male that was so different from the clear condescending scorn he dished out on other women on a regular basis. "I'm not psychic, then. And even if I were, I'd give it all up just to earn your approval. Wouldn't want you to hate me, Starling. It would be the catastrophe of my adult life."

"And what's the catastrophe of your teenage life?"

"Not meeting you," he retorted, quite seriously.

"Aww, you getting romantic on me, St. John? Don't tell me the Tin Man actually has a heart? Shock and horror."

"I'm crushed, do you hear? Deeply and completely hurt beyond belief," Starling could almost imagine him put his left hand over his heart as he always did when he made speeches like this. "Pick you up in half an hour. Be dressed and ready or else I'll come charging into that cramped little bedroom of yours and have my way with you, startling with nips on that wonderfully tight derriere. . . "

"Playboy."

"Flirt."

"Ass."

"Beautiful girl."

Starling arched a sardonic brow, struggling valiantly to keep the grin from her face as she was suddenly filled with the waffies, until she realised he had already hung up. Distractedly, she hit the line 1 button. 

"Hello? Doctor Lecter? Hello?" 

There was nobody there.

**

Waffies – warm and fuzzy feelings

Beer goggles – my best friend once told me that this referred to when a bloke drinks enough, any woman will start to look good to him.

I'm aware that "shagging" is a British, not an American term, but let's assume that Starling's been watching Austin Powers, shall we? Or did you really think she could spend that much time with St. John and not learn some new words? This chapter has not been proofread as my beta has somehow gone missing in action.


	5. Chapter Five

****

Chapter 5

__

See Disclaimers on chapter 1

A/N: As this story progresses, I realise fully that I've written both Clarice and the GD as slightly (or extremely – take your pick) OOC. For that I would like to apologise. But that does not mean that it was not intentional. I wanted to do something different, and I hope this achieves it. I'm also sorry for the proliferation of non-canon characters, since as a rule I generally avoid stories that feature them. Never meant for those nuts to get out of hand. But rest assured that only two of them shall be given further elaboration. Thank you for having the patience to read my pathetic whingeing, now on with the show.

For LadyOfTruths who never stopped liking this story despite my laxness in posting.

**

__

Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with all these people snoring their lives away. Night is the best part of the day.

****

Max_, Dark Angel._

Hannibal Lecter put the phone down and smiled grimly to himself. He had heard every single word of the two lovers' conversation. 

Yes. Lovers. He had no doubts about the young man's intentions towards Clarice; it was hers he was not guaranteed of. On one hand, young St. John's feelings could easily be reciprocated as well, but that was something he did not gather from the tone of their discourse. Any somewhat deeper emotions had to be coming from his end, and were as yet undeclared.

He had watched her as she lay on the bed in the cramped motel room, smelling of sex and sweat, her expression closed to him save for the occasional puckering of her forehead and rapid eye twitches as she tossed and turned, betraying the direction her dreams had taken and assuring him that the lambs were still screaming.

A whimsical smiled flitted across the doctor's face for the briefest of moments before disappearing entirely as he once again cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear as he punched the buttons of a particular phone number. As the phone began to ring, Lecter ruminated on recent events while waiting for the person at the other end of the line to pick up.

Despite all evidence towards the contrary, Hannibal Lecter did not think of himself as omniscient these days. If perhaps at one time he did, his encounters with the former FBI Agent had quickly disabused him of that notion. 

That maddeningly provoking yet oh-so-desirable woman brought out a multitude of long denied emotions in him, emotions which he thought were forgotten or even incapable of feeling but now realised were only lying dormant, waiting for the right kind of pilot to come and take the wheel. Someone to push his buttons, so to speak and Clarice Starling could push them _very well_, whether she was aware of it or not.

Rage. Envy. Lust. An overwhelming desire to gut and string her incommodious lover's chitterlings up for the world to see . . . _yeah. That would be good_. Cut the bothersome bastard's belly like a kielbasa and savour the fear and agony in the little shit's ridiculously green eyes as the life slowly drained out of him. Lecter allowed himself a slight smile that slowly disappeared as he contemplated on the ramifications of his actions. While he was fairly certain that Clarice could not possibly love the man (or maybe it was the thought that she would choose some insignificant pup over him that led him towards this line of thinking), she could very well _care _for him.

He shook himself mentally somewhat disturbed that he had been perturbed at the thought of distressing his Clarice. 

Two years was an eternity spent in a voyeuristic limbo. Two years, in which he had to watch her, to derive pleasure from the very sight of her . . . well, happiness it certainly was not. Could it ever have been? Perhaps a more apt term for her current state of emotion was contentment. Yes, contentment. Despite everything she might have said during their Sunday repast, he had every reason to believe that Clarice was finally at peace with herself and the people around her. Which was why he chose this time to make his presence known to her.

Click.

"Hello?" A sleepy male voice at the other end of the line fairly snarled into the receiver.

Lecter had never really been fond of Conan Doyle's stories, but his ludicrous detective's battle cry could not have been more apropos to the present scenario.

The game was indeed afoot.

**

__

Odalisque, 311 Bourbon St. 9:00 p.m. Day 15.

J. Irvin was a man above all other men. A gossip columnist with phenomenal talent, he could have written several novels of which any one was more than certain to be deemed veritable classics, had he not decided to pursue a career in journalism instead. New Orleans society trembled in fear of his acid pen and even more acidic wit that could and had reduced even the most haughty of debutantes into whining, whimpering masses of humiliated lace and chiffon within mere minutes. This compounded with a formidable presence that easily drew men and women to him like steel to a magnet cemented the celebrity that came with the name and left no room for additional speculation to the already abundant gossip on the subject of his life, which was fuelled by and revolved around it. They say that the pen is mightier than the sword, but for many of J. Irvin's lovers, his _sword_ was absolutely mightier than his pen.

From his lofty perch on the second level of the club, he scanned the pit; crawling with the teeming masses of humanity that seemed to be gyrating in time to the frenzied cadence of the onstage band. _Damn bunch of demented pied pipers with amplifiers_, he thought moodily to himself. His cold grey eyes with their all encompassing gaze was that of a conquering ruler, a cigarette his right and the ever-present glass of scotch in the other.

"Hello, baby," the slender Hispanic woman smiled up at him as she wrapped her arms about his middle, chin resting on his chest as she looked up into his face.

"Hello to you, too. And how is my favourite bitch today?" J. Irvin enquired glibly, pinching one plump ass cheek and pressing a fatherly kiss to her forehead. This woman was not one of his lovers and thus more respected and adored for it.

"Still bitchin'. Can you believe the crowd? I tell you, I have to get myself out of this business."

"Why? You make so much money from it." He tossed back the two fingers of scotch in one go, settling the empty glass on one of the black, wood and steel circular tables.

"It bores me."

"What doesn't?"

"Well fuck me, is that who I think it is?" she said almost to herself before grabbing J. Irvin by the arm and yanking his face down in order for his line of vision to match hers. The both stared at the tall, dark haired man, identical mischievously glee-filled grins gracing their very dissimilar faces.

"Johnny," they chorused.

"Did you see that hot number with him," the woman murmured appreciatively, gesturing at the couple who were making their way across the jam-packed dance floor.

"She's pretty," J. Irvin pronounced with the experienced tone of a man well versed in the feminine physique. "But a little too wholesome-looking for my tastes. Or his for that matter. Always thought he went for petite, dark and sarcastic."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Still in denial, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Whatever. Denial my ass," she grumbled as she shoved him in the chest before moving to greet the approaching couple at the stairs. She cocked her head to one side, blocking their path.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the infamous Malcolm St. John."

**

"I thought we were going to a jazz club," Starling yelled at St. John over the din of discotheque music that was hammering fiercely through her skull, causing her blood to thrum as it pooled in her not-to-be-mentioned-in-public places. Her temperature went up two degrees, something she had yet to decide whether the cause that particular sensation was the atmospheric heat generated by the many bodies surrounding her or from the half glass of brandy she had already consumed in the ten minutes they had both been here. 

"I lied," he yelled back. "Sort of. This used to be a Jazz club," he muttered to himself. 

"What?"

"I said I changed my mind. Besides, I want you to meet some friends of mine," he gripped her hand tightly as he tugged her up the industrial steel stairs, fishing the both of them out of the pit. 

__

Meet. Friends. Oh shit. 

In Starling's opinion, it was never a good thing when they wanted you to meet their friends. It meant that they were getting serious. Somehow she didn't think she was quite ready for that yet. When she turned her head to look back down, she was temporarily blinded and left seeing spots by the flashing kaleidoscope of light into her eyes. As St. John steered her over to one of the more secluded corners, she resisted the childish urge to rub at her eyelids.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the infamous Malcolm St. John, finally deigning to step down from his loft perch to mingle with us mere mortals." Starling looked up to see a smiling Hispanic woman and a tall, strongly built mulatto man with the most striking grey eyes she had ever seen glinting deep set from his dark face. She turned to her lover (or her what-fucking-ever) who looked like he'd been slapped in the face before quickly recovering himself and turning up the charm.

**

__

Upper Level, Odalisque, 311 Bourbon. 9:30 p.m. Day 15

Maddox Capriccio was slightly smaller than Clarice with a tiny but perfectly proportioned frame that made her look taller than she actually was. Her short-cropped hair had blue highlights in it and was gelled just enough to achieve that just-rolled-out-of-bed-look that was the rage nowadays. She had a stud in one nose and a cigarette was hanging out of her mouth. Very gothic. She gave Starling the once over with her coolly assessing gaze, her features remaining blank and expressionless. Whatever Maddox thought of Clarice, she kept it to herself as she continued to appraise the redhead.

"How long have you been fucking him?"

"Excuse me?" Starling's eyes widened in disbelief. The dark haired woman made and impatient gesture with her hand. 

"Him. Johnny. Or _St. John_, as those not in the know usually call him," she took a deep drag off her cigarette, puffing the grey, white and ever so pale blue of smoke in a series of perfectly formed rings.

"Er, not that long," said Starling carefully, surreptitiously looking around to see if St. John had returned with their drinks. He was still down in the pit and hadn't even reached the bar yet. "Why?"

"Nothing much. Just don't expect it to last. He's like that, you see. All fun and games one minute and Mr. gloom and doom the next. "

"I've noticed. And I assume you speak from experience."

"Possibly." 

"Are you attempting to discourage me?"

The other woman gave her a shrewd look from the inky depths of her eyes. "Would it make you feel better if I told you that every single tramp, woman, bitch, slut or God knows what kind of dumb ho that useless skunk brings here gets the same treatment? Not that I'm implying that you belong to one of those categories. For all I know, you could be _the_ girl."

"The girl?" parroted Starling. Dax took swirled the ice cubes round and round in her glass, taking one of them into her mouth with her tongue and crunching on it.

"Not too quick, are you? Two kinds of relationships we have in this world, babe. A relationship you have with _some_one, or a relationship you have with _the_ one. It's an everlasting search that only a few of us are able to finish successfully. Most just give up and settle for second best." Clarice nodded her head in mute understanding. "Do you use any protection? Pills? Condoms?" 

"I am a grown woman. I don't think we need this talk—"

"Yadda, yadda, yadda. That's what they all say until _he_," there was no doubt whom she was talking about, "knocks them up sooner or later. Then they find out that the illustrious Mr. Malcolm never intended for their so-called _relationship_ to be anything but a very brief fling. Then starts the crying, the weeping, the all-out bawling but in the end, they get rid of the kid once they realise they'll never be able to use it as leverage against him. Do you understand?"

"All too well. And if it will make you abandon this distasteful topic, it's the latter."

Dax rolled her eyes. "Well, don't rely on that, love. All them Catholics have got is the rhythm method, and we both know that doesn't work. Keep it up and you'll be pregnant faster than you can say bastard," Dax narrowed her eyes and scrutinised her. "Unless of course that's what you want."

"Want? Hell no!" she remonstrated vehemently. "That's the last thing I want."

"Frabjous. We've now sort of established you're no gold-digger. My advise to you is that you better get yourself on the pill, girlfriend. If there's one thing worse than getting pregnant, it's not knowing who the father is."

"Why wouldn't I?" asked Starling curiously.

"Please, darling. Juggling isn't conductive to paternal assurance. Besides, I doubt if you'd really want to subject your bambino to the tests required for that sort of shit."

"Juggling?" she echoed. This really was starting to get quite tedious. The woman was talking so fast and being so damned ambiguous, Starling had to struggle to keep up with what sounded to her like riddles.

"Man over there, six o'clock. He's been looking at you in the weirdest way. That's not the look of some nut with a crush. That's the look of a man in love. And let me tell you, baby, that kind of lovin' doesn't go unreciprocated for long. If you aren't sleeping with him now, very soon you will be. Take my word for it. Been there and done that and let me tell you, it ain't gonna be pretty."

With those words, her head snapped to the direction Dax had inclined her head towards.

**

__

Ground Level, Odalisque, 311 Bourbon. 9:30 p.m. Day 15

"Right. What did you drag me here for, again?" Guillermo Ruiz, still half asleep torpidly inquired of Hannibal Lecter, who was attempting to gain a clear view of the second-floor through the thick haze of smoke pervading the club's atmosphere. Ruiz tilted his head a little and glanced at the two women who had commanded his friend's attention. "She's going to kill me if she finds out I'm with you, you know," he remarked off-handedly, signalling a passing waiter for another brandy.

"And here I thought you were the eternal masochist considering your choice in life partners."

"I take it you're referring to Lorelai?"

"You mean the vicious harpy you married has a name?" said Lecter distractedly, trying to read Clarice's lips without being sidetracked by the less than acceptable thoughts that particular sight inevitably conjured up.

"Touché. But I'm not the one trying to hide and play the Peeping Tom at the same time."

"I prefer to refer to this as surreptitious surveillance, thank you very much."

"Political correctness has nothing to do with the fact that your present behaviour is a radical departure from what passes as your norms. But then, Lor always said that love doth make fools of us all."

"You're assuming, _Guillermo_," Lecter said blandly, calling the other man by his much despised first name.

"And you're ridiculous, Hannibal."

"You do of course realise I've killed people for lesser remarks than that?" Lecter smiled malevolently at Ruiz who remained unperturbed and was now scrying into a fresh glass of brandy.

"You can't kill me."

"Why not?"

"You'd be bored. Not to mention short of people you could actually tolerate. We all know what happens when you're bored. You'd have been climbing walls back in Med school had I not been there. Have you noticed that the ice cubes look rather fascinating in this light?"

"You're deviating. Are you quite certain you aren't suffering from premature Alzheimer's?"

"All wishful thinking on your part. If you want her, tell her the truth. Stop with all this cloak and dagger nonsense. Women generally like that, but there are always exceptions to the rule. I am more than sure that Clarice Starling has had enough to last her several lifetimes over. Honesty goes a long way, my friend. You should try it sometime."

"Seeing as the tactics you employ with regards to your personal life only landed you in the welcoming claws of Cruella De Ville, I believe I would be wise to take your words with a pinch—no, make that a _cup_ of salt. And as for honesty, I believe I have always been brutally honest."

"The operative word there was _brutality_, as opposed to _honesty_. What the girl needs is normality. Pick something you like about her and complement her on it. Maybe even embellish a little."

"That would be lying."

"_But_, it would be lying to your advantage," Ruiz wagged his finger as if to make a point. "And yes, there is a difference."

"I do wish you would make up your mind. Not only do you have Alzheimer's, you're schizophrenic as well," he groused tetchily. Ruiz chortled, much too accustomed to the other man's mercurial temperament to actually take any offence at it.

"You've missed this, haven't you," he gestured at the both of them. "Just sitting down, relaxed, surrounded by beautiful, scantily-clad women," Ruiz wagged an eyebrow suggestively to the effect of having Lecter roll his eyes. But not before the other man had seen the tiniest of smiles tugging at one corner of the doctor's mouth. "Fine. You've always had the beauties at your beck and call, but what about being able to engage in friendly banter with someone _with_ an IQ who knows you for who you are and still accepts you?" 

"Maybe."

"You did. Admit it."

"If I say yes, will you be quiet at last?"

"Not likely," Ruiz smiled, spreading his arms out in a friendly gesture. "You know me too well."

"You're worthless. If you cannot be still will you at least inform me what causes Lorelai to detest me so?"

"Detest? Really, Hannibal. That's too strong a word even when pertaining to you. She's wary of you, mistrustful, but I doubt she detests you. If she did, she would have called the Feds on you. Especially since she seems to be rather fond of Clarice."

"You mean the Fucking Bushel of Idiots?"

"No, I meant the Comprehensive Imbecile's Association. Of course I meant the FBI."

"You're definitely schizophrenic. Have you tried seeking psychiatric help?"

"Not yet. Are you offering? I've heard it can be quite expensive."

"Are we going to argue for the rest of the night?"

"What can I say? Can't really blame me, as I'm being perfectly reasonable while you're stubborn as a mule and twice as ugly. Oh shit. Uh, Hannibal, I think you've just caught the little birdie's eye," Ruiz muttered almost unintelligibly before ducking to avoid the sudden glare of a startled Starling.

**

Clarice quickly scanned the dimness of the alcoves with her trained eyes for a glimpse of the man whom Maddox had mentioned. Five teenagers getting drunk . . . the empty beer bottles on their table stood as testament to that. The next three tables occupied by groups of friends prattling animatedly with each other, a lone woman furtively looking around as if she were afraid of being stood up. _Best of luck to you, sister_, Starling thought wryly. Nobody even remotely interesting in the other table and . . .she found him. He was nearly obscured by the large fronds of a potted palm sitting with another man whose face she couldn't see at all only a vaguely familiar back and head of salt and pepper hair.

Lecter. _Dammit, does the man never quit?_

Just as she narrowed her eyes in irked awareness, her quarry subtly inclined his sleek head towards hers in a manner of greeting that struck her as condescending in every aspect and caused her hackles to rise up. She barely felt St. John as he returned with their drinks and slid his body next to her in the booth, his arm coming around her shoulders to draw her nearer to him. 

Lecter's dark, knowing eyes mocked her, causing her temper not to mention body temperature to escalate a few degrees more than it had climbed previously. Starling felt her upper lip curling involuntarily and his answering smile of smug arrogance, no doubt in the knowledge that he had sufficiently perturbed her. His head moved just the slightest bit, enough to let her know that he was looking at St. John before once again giving her his full attention. 

__

The gall of that man. 

He raised his right hand in a contemptuous two-fingered salute accompanied by an even more infuriating smile that made her blood boil. 

A challenge issued, a gauntlet thrown. In a heartbeat she made her decision.

Let the games begin.

**

"God, that's depressing," said Dax, flashing a grin in both Starling and St. John's general direction, her attention on the blonde woman onstage. Starling tried to focus hers back into the conversation, trying to assess what she had missed by picking up hints here and there, all the while her mind on the man whose gaze she felt boring into her out of the corner of one eye.

"So, how you been, mate?" 

St. John grunted what must have passed for an answer as Dax merely arched a brow and chuckled. "Same old, same old. You've never changed, have you, you morose old bastard? Best of luck with him, girlie. You'll need a truckload of it just to deal with his gloomy Irishness. It's like G.K. Chesterton. _The Irish are the race that God made mad, for all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad_," she quoted smoothly, flashing the both of them a sad smile before picking up her Gin & Tonic and swaggering effortlessly away, cutting through the crowd with the practiced ease of the perpetual party-hopper. 

__

She's gone? That was one short convo. A surreptitious glance at her wristwatch gave her the surprising and disconcerting information that she and Lecter had been glaring and staring each other respectively for nearly ten minutes. _Time's sure fun when you're having flies_. She stifled the urge to roll her eyeballs and was glad that she did for when she turned her head to St. John, she was caught unawares by the distant and could it be—almost melancholy look replacing the perpetually amused glitter in his lovely greens. Instinctively, she knew it had something to do with the seemingly harmless (but now she began to doubt that) chatter she missed.

"Who's Maddox to you?" she enquired softly. He started, giving her a startled glance, as no doubt she had interrupted his ruminations from wherever they had wandered.

"Dax is. . ." he hesitated. "Dax is just a girl I used to know. Or thought I knew." He finished more firmly, a poignant expression still haunting him.

"Old flame?" 

"More like old _flamed_," he replied quietly, folding a paper napkin again and again until it was a tiny triangular wad. "I crashed and burned when she left me high and dry." Starling nearly winced at the flicker of pain she saw in his green eyes.

"Interesting friends you have."

"They're more interesting than they seem," he replied bafflingly. "J. Irvin's completely insane and Dax is just about twice as mad as he is. Lord knows how they get along."

"She's very frank." Starling leaned her head into the crook of his neck, inhaling the distinctly masculine smell of him, mixed with cigarette smoke, albeit not unpleasantly. As his fingers reached up to stroke her hair, her guardian devil planted the seed of an interesting scenario that positively screamed payback into her brain. What had began as an act of comfort from her towards her lover now began to escalate into a delicious form of tit for tat that set the wheels and gears turning in her mind.

__

All I need is a little cooperation from that very bad man down there. Either that, or some divine intervention would be appreciated. A glance down into the pit confirmed that she still commanded Lecter's full attention and she fought the urge to smirk. _If this ain't killing two birds with one stone, I don't know what is_.

"To the point of being rude and insulting?" her lover grinned. "She's always been like that. But that's Maddox for you and she means well. Most of the time."

"And the rest of the time," she murmured huskily into the sensitive skin behind his ear. 

__

This is wrong, wrong, wrong, Starling's conscience chanted into her head but the memory of Lecter's eyes boring into hers and the offending gesture of a mock-salute was enough to steel her resolve.

"And the rest of the time . . . Mmmmm," St. John sighed at the delicious pressure of her lips and the soft little nips she was giving his earlobe.

"I'm sorry, you were saying?" Starling grinned impishly at him, shooting him a come-hither glance, her eyes filled with the knowledge gifted to all women since the dawn of time. 

__

Now or never. Come on, boy. Don't disappoint. If that man wants a show, he's got another thing coming to him . . . Hannibal Lecter, you had better be watching this.

"Oh fucking 'ell," St. John groaned as he pulled her to him. She reciprocated his kiss with equal fervour. But her eyes were locked with a man, cloaked in smoky darkness, sitting behind and below them, down in one of the tables in one of the alcoves on the platforms lining the pit. Daring him, taunting him. She knew that in the tumultuous chaos of the gardens in his mind's eye he was walking the proverbial fine line between sanity and all other forms of life. And she knew that it would take only the slightest push to make him decide to remove that line.

Well, when that happened, the shit was going to hit the fan. _Big time_.

**

Lecter wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. Intellectually, he knew perfectly well that the chances of such occurrence were slimmer than none. After all, he was in fit shape and made certain that he kept that a constant. But there was something to be said about the feeling of all his blood rushing to his head in a manner that was not good at all, the pounding sound it made in his ears, drowning out the hubbub of the club. The erratic beat of the music becoming the unsteady pulse of his heart. His vision had seemingly narrowed to tunnel-like pinpoints with air refusing to be dragged into his garrotted lungs.

Knowing they were doing the deed in private was one thing, but watching them practically _devour_ each other in public was another. And that was something he would not tolerate.

He was barely even aware of the sting in his palm until he looked down and realised that he had crushed his glass. Brandy flowed over, around and into the wound mixing with the red of blood and disinfecting it to some extent what with its alcohol content. Lecter really didn't have the time to ponder on such mundane elementary first-aid medicine mainly because the foremost thing on his mind was murder.

St. John's in particular.

The pup was going to die slowly. 

As excruciatingly as he could possibly make it.

Who was it that said, "Hell hath no fury . . ." clearly had never met a pissed off Hannibal Lecter.

**

A/N: Credit where it's due: 

"You'll be pregnant faster than you can say bastard," taken from a conversation with MischaLecter.

Ghenghis Khan is quoted in a butchered manner. Forgive me.


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter 6 

_See Disclaimers on Chapter 1_

_A/N: Lecter's opinion of the X-Files does not necessarily reflect the author's own. I'm sorry for taking so long to get this chapter out. My only excuse is that once again, college has been a bitch. *hangs head in shame* I'll try to get the next chapter up much sooner._

_Thanks to those people who reviewed Chapter 5: Aine Deande, Saavik, shir-ran, Hanniballover1181, MK, Nanci, Steel, Jstarz927, luna, ironist, Marcus Aurelius, Dixihnsnluver, LadyofTruths, JB, Danny, shiva, orangesky, guber, Fumblepaws, Anisky, KatZ, Kate,_ _shaninigans and Spinjunct._

_Shout outs go to my bitch Tilly, and to Lu and Jules._

_For Spinjunct. I love you. *yes, gag me now*_

**

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice._

From what I've tasted of desire 

I hold with those who favour fire. 

**- Robert Frost, _Fire and Ice_ -**

Ground Level, Odalisque, 311 Bourbon. 9:59 p.m. Day 15 

Guillermo Ruiz stared apprehensively at the unnaturally still figure of Hannibal Lecter, seemingly frozen in place and eyeing his hand in rapt fascination as ruby droplets mixed with amber, staining the white of linen.

The other man's eyes had gone dark, darker than usual, darker than he thought possible. Dark as the blood staining the pavements of some of the crime scenes he used to work on, seeping into the cracks and becoming part of the night. Somebody's life glistening in the moonlight.

In all the thirty-something years he had been acquainted with Lecter, he had seen him in a variety of states, dispositions and frames of mind. He had seem him sober, slightly less than sober, blind pissing drunk and then personally nursed him back to sobriety once again just as Lecter had done for him. Though the man had an extremely high tolerance for alcohol, he was by no means immune to it and when an assortment of kinds of it is ingested in great quantities . . . well, a man can only stay abstemious for so long. 

Ah, the mad, bad, wild and crazy days of the college years. Weekends spent carousing in the bars located around and near the campus. The endless flow of women, alcohol and—he grinned to himself, not in the least sorry—some not quite legal, mind altering substances. They weren't exactly what you could call angels, and hell, they still weren't although he suspected he had come to settle down after all those years. Lecter, on the other hand was a different story.

Even during those carefree times, he had known that behind that ferocious intellect his friend was a formidable man capable of great anger and wondered where along the way had the final threshold been breached, that final fuck-up that opened the floodgates and unleashed the tightly-reined violence lurking within the fire-blackened chambers of the good doctor's mind. He had shied away from even contemplating it before, but now the issue was unavoidable.

When initial information came out of the truth behind Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter's murder spree, Ruiz and his wife had been the only ones of the doctor's acquaintances who hadn't been surprised. He supposed that on some level, he must have been expecting it. Nobody else did. Baltimore society never anticipated that the successful, brilliant, charming, elusive and oh-so-sought-after psychiatrist was capable of such atrocities. 

But just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it isn't there. 

The tree in the forest routine just never seemed to work in real life.

Ruiz had caught a glimpse of it one whiskey debauched night when he had looked into his flatmate's eyes and nearly recoiled from the bleak, soulless expression looming in their depths. Their very blankness called out to him and yet there was nothing else he could do. Not even to break eye contact. He was looking down into the emptiness of the abyss and it stared back at him, unflinching.

He wondered what it was about the dark that seemed so undeniably compelling.

** 

St. John propped his elbow lazily onto the bartop as he angled himself into one of the seats while waiting for the bartender to take his orders. He couldn't believe his good fortune. It seemed that for once in his lackadaisical life, Lady Luck was actually smiling down on him and showering him with all the good graces he believed was his by virtue of birth alone and never had to work for a single day of his existence. 

St. John was a rather arrogant and self-assured man.

He was, during moments where he basked in his superior masculinity, indeed a man if not a man's man. However, unlike most males who are prone to be more visually oriented as opposed to tactile, St. John preferred to savour the more tangible things about his lover. Being able to appreciate her beauty was all well and good. After all, everyone else had the same privilege. It was a free country and last he checked there were no laws against staring at a beautiful woman – or asking for her phone number like every Tom, Dick, and Harry out there. But to Malcolm St. John, it was the physical aspect of their relationship that he had come to value the most.

It wasn't just the sex – though he would be lying through his teeth if he said he didn't enjoy their amorous encounters – it was everything about her.

Starling, in his mind, tasted like rust and stardust - were he to ever have the dubious fortune of ingesting said substances. Playing tonsil hockey with the unpredictable Clarice Starling was like being engaged in pleasurable lip lock with a ticking time bomb. He would never again understand how his friends and acquaintances could wax poetic about their lovers tasting like Sunshine (_too much sunshine will lead to sunburn and skin cancer_) or Strawberries (made him think of fruit baskets) or – he shuddered at the thought – Love (_how the hell would you know what love tastes like, anyway? Did they feed you that as a child, cos I sure as hell didn't get a sample_). Starling was none of those things and yet all of them. She was impulsive as she was attractive, intelligent as she was dangerous and he had always felt he was trotting a very finely marked line whenever he was with her. _Trotting. Heh. What was he? Her little tiny bitch lap dog?_

_Come to think of it, that wasn't such a bad thought_ he smiled to himself. He didn't mind so much being her pup. As long as she was partial to leather collars.

The thought made him grin even wider.

A large, warm hand clamped down, biting harshly onto his shoulder.

Turning around, he was greeted by the usually smiling blue eyes of Guillermo Ruiz.

Only this time, they weren't twinkling. Not a bit.

"We need to have a talk," the older man said, motioning for the younger to follow him.

**

Upper Level, Odalisque, 311 Bourbon. 10:02 p.m. Day 15 

The minute St. John left her side to get more drinks, Starling's senses went on complete red alert, knowing fully that somewhere in the club a furious cannibal currently stalked. Her ocean blue eyes scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar pair of murderous maroon ones and checking on St. John who appeared whole and unmolested save for the rapacious stares of several women, lounging indolently at the bar.

Not for long apparently as a slight, dark figure made his way through the throng of dancers who instinctively parted from him like the Dead Sea. Lecter stretched out a hand as if to tap St. John on the shoulder but at the last moment, looked up at Starling, and the frozen expression on her face. He smirked, seemingly satisfied at the discomfiture this caused her and threw her a mock salute before disappearing once more into the crowd. 

Starling attempted to follow Lecter's movements, but in the end, lost him just as the harsh disco lights began to blink, throwing the writhing masses in odd shades of shadow and light. 

"Good evening, Clarice."

Startled out of her crowd scrutiny by the dangerous honey tones of her quarry, Starling slowly rotated her head and took in the presence of the slight man before her, a study in contradictions as he stood lazily feet firmly planted apart. Posture tensed and yet unperturbed, arms resting at his sides, regarding her with an intent look. Her eyes roved keenly over his fine form - trained still after all these years; taking in the well cut dark suit, the doctor's impeccable sense of style making itself known as always. 

He was looking very calm and composed, showing no signs of the fury that had engulfed him earlier. Until her gaze drifted to his left hand, tiny rivulets of blood dripping tracks into the carpet.

She did the first thing that entered her mind.

**

Senior Crime Scene Investigator Doctor Guillermo Jose Maria Ruiz was at the moment, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. Relief that Lecter hadn't decided to murder the young man and apprehension as to what his intentions were towards Clarice. The way the doctor was looking earlier, he wouldn't have been surprised had his friend simply given in to the urge to castrate and oh-so-cheerfully follow that impulse up with an impromptu dissection. On the dance floor no less. Ruiz briefly deliberated whether or not he were insane as well, as that particular imagery actually caused a slight smile to linger on his lips.  

Instead, Lecter had coolly gotten up and told Ruiz to "See to the pup. I must speak with Clarice," and disappeared into the crowd before he could make a reply.

He hoped he wouldn't be charged as accessory to murder were anything to go wrong tonight.

Exiting the stuffy atmosphere of the club and into the balmy embrace of the night air, Ruiz's attitude changed from that of a completely mild-mannered, much-loved-though-considered-by-some-to-be-slightly-batty uncle to positively forceful, do-not-you-dare-fucking-mess-with-me, taking a hold of the younger man's arm and squiring him across the street to the other side. A parked van effectively hiding them from the view of anyone at the club and slamming the taller man hard against the vehicle's side panel with a loud thunk on the metal.

"What the fuck do you think you're--" St. John began to say in protest.

"Stay away from her boy," Ruiz cut in, pressing St. John further onto the worn panel in addition to his warning. He stared the younger man face to face.

"Just who do you think you are to tell me that?" demanded St. John shoving the older man aside and stepping away from the rusting vehicle.

"Someone who knows that she's much to good for you, you wretched young spalpeen. Believe me, there are things beyond your control and things that you weren't meant to have and she's one of them. Don't ask."

"What the hell kind of drug are you on?"

"Let's just say that there are some people whom you would never, under any circumstances want to meet if you value your internals and one of them is a--ah, friend of hers. That girl is like a daughter to me and if you even--"

"Fuck it, Guillermo, you're even crazier than I thought," St. John hurled at Ruiz before turning around to return inside but was stopped at the feel of the other man's hand on his arm. "Let go of me, Guillermo."

"Not until we're clear."

"We are clear."

"You listen to me boy," said Ruiz gravely, squeezing the younger man's arm a little more. St. John's eyes narrowed in irritation and he tensed in anticipation for a fight. 

A mobile went off and he looked to Ruiz to answer it.

"Hello," the forensics expert barked sharply into the receiver, brow furrowed in concentration. "For once in your life, get straight to the point, man. Oh. I see. Uh-huh. Fuck almighty. Has anybody moved the--? Good. See to it they stay that way. I can be there in ten minutes. No, I'll do that. Alright." He pushed the antenna back in and closed the phone with an audible clap, shoving it forcefully into the pocket of his blazer.

"What was that about?" enquired St. John. The entire tone of the conversation made him uneasy.

"We have a double homicide."

"Fuck. Where at?"

"Upriver. Garden District."

"I'll go get Clarice."

"No, he--" Ruiz butted in, looking as if he were to add something more then hesitated. "We have to get there right now. I'll call her."

"I'll just be a minute--"

"I said I'll call her," insisted Ruiz fixing the other man an almost threatening look.

"Fine," acquiesced St. John, thrown slightly off-kilter by his colleague's strange behaviour. "I'll drive."

**

Leading the doctor to one of the miraculously empty (_And a hallelujah to the big man from up high for that_, Starling mentally muttered. Having someone see her in the company of one of the top-notchers on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted was just what she needed to officially catapult this evening into one of her 'Five Worst Nights' list, an interesting if not impressive inventory that included such _memorable_ events as 'Having-To-Watch-Paul-Krendler-Happily-Eat-His-Brains' and 'Running-Away-Astride-A-Blind-Horse-Only-To-Be-Brought-Back-Then-Placed-In-An-Orphanage-And-The-Horse-Killed-Anyway'. _Fuck_. She just hoped that St John, wherever the man was, had the good sense not to come looking for her else things just might get ugly), unisex bathrooms, she pushed him through the door before slamming it shut and bolting the both of them in. There was a couch at the far end by the sink. 

"Sit," she commanded folding her arms over her chest and looking not in the least intimidated by the sight of Hannibal Lecter's left eyebrow creeping leisurely up to meet his hairline in an expression of that was leaning towards humorous. "And wipe that smirk off your face."

The other eyebrow shot up to keep its brother company along with the upper right corner of his mouth, although the doctor nevertheless complied.

They glared at each other in silence—Lecter with a good amount of detached amusement gracing his patrician features and Starling with an even greater amount of just-about-bordering-on-incensed irritability as she yanked paper towels from the dispenser near the mirror and used some of them to blot the still-bleeding cuts on doctor's left hand. The others she doused liberally with tequila from an abandoned and fortunately unopened bottle tucked away in one corner right behind the ubiquitous potted plant.

"What the fuck did you think you were going to do? Gut him? In public?" she demanded, wiping away some of the blood. They looked deep. In all honesty, she was slightly surprised that he was taking this with remarkable stoicism. Any other man she had known would have been blubbering like a baby at lesser injuries than this. _Then again_, she reminded herself, _Hannibal Lecter was no ordinary man_.

And she, Clarice Starling, was currently on bended knee between his legs.

Under different circumstances, she would, very much like a cat on fire, have quickly risen and place her derriere beside him, ignore the questioning look he would undoubtedly give her and carry on with the task, soldier. However at present, she really didn't feel the need to give him the pleasure of knowing he had flustered her. Although her present position still caused a slight pink tint to appear on her cheeks. Thankfully, this escaped the doctor's notice, as he made no remark of it. Apparently, he hadn't guessed where her thoughts had wandered off to or if he had, he was too much of a gentleman to share it.

"I don't believe I was," he said finally in answer to her question, seeming almost surprised at the rare honesty and unexpectedness of his response.

"Got that right. Okay, this is going to hurt you a lot more than it is going to hurt me . . ." she warned, pressing down on the cuts with the tequila-soaked towels. Starling half expected him to either hiss or flinch at the initial contact. 

He blinked. 

She gave him a questioning look and then shrugged mentally at his lack of reaction, getting on with cleaning and to some extent, disinfecting the nicks, making sure there weren't any leftover slivers of glass in them.

He sat through these proceedings without drawing back, lecturing or even uttering a single complaint. Which was a pleasant surprise.

"Well, that's that," she said, wrapping his hand securely with his white handkerchief, now spotted here and there. Starling took a swig from the leftover alcohol and after an inner debate that lasted all of two seconds passed it to him. She was taken aback when he accepted and drank from it without even pausing to wipe the mouth. Lecter examined her handiwork with a critical eye.

"I know it's not up to your usual standards, doctor, but please do bear in mind that I am a police officer, not a nurse."

He quirked an indolent eyebrow at her.

"Oh, that's quite all right, Clarice. More than passable, I daresay. Although there is one thing you left out, however--" he handed her the tequila.

"Yeah? What?" Starling took the bottle from him. He waited until she had raised it to her lips.

"Seeing as how you've performed the part of Florence Nightingale so well, why don't you just play the role to the hilt and include a kiss to make it all the more better?" he said – quite seriously – just as she tossed her head back for another swallow. Lecter admired the smooth alabaster column of her neck. 

And the way her eyes widened in disbelief.

"Excuse me?" Starling spluttered on the tequila, her lungs and nasal cavity on fire, her thoughts going into hyper drive. _Helphelphelpshitfuckanddamn!_

"Your concern touches me profoundly. Are you quite certain you aren't up to kissing me even if just for the pure purpose of enhancing my feelings of well-being?"

"In your dreams."

"Who let that particular cat out of the bag?"

Starling flushed. Was he flirting with her? Possibly. He had uttered the statement in all seriousness yet he also had that lazy smile on his face that sent chills up her spine and, she wasn't exactly sure she liked that look in his eye. She cleared her throat in an attempt to recover. 

"Ahem," said Starling, clearing her throat in an attempt to divert the subject to somewhere more comfortable or at the very least, less _un_comfortable. "Ah, well, back to before. A kiss for your boo-boo? Ah do declare doctor, could it be that your preference in diet has finally caused your IQ to be reduced to that of a five year old?" she drawled in a bad parody of Scarlett O'Hara and was rewarded by another, if infinitesimal, smile from the doctor. Vivien Leigh she was not. Why oh why did she have to have the strangest defence mechanisms? _Time to derail the train of thought_. "Tell me something, doctor. If you've known about me living here all this time what was stopping you from coming out and making contact with me?"

"Making contact," he ruminated on those two words, thankfully abandoning (although in all likelihood he was probably shelving it away for a resumed discussion at a later date) their previous discourse. "Ignoring the extraterrestrial analogousness of your phrasing - you've been watching that atrocious television program again haven't you – the simple truth of the matter was that--"

"The X-Files, doctor. That _atrocious television program_ is called the X-Files." 

"Knowing said television program's title does not excuse its reprehensible quality and your poor preferences when it comes to--"

"You envy me my educated tastes," sniffed Starling in a superior manner.

"That I will not dignify with a response."

"You're digressing."

"Getting impatient, were we? Do stop interrupting--"

"Patience has never been one of my strong points."

"Naturally. Else you wouldn't be Clarice Starling were you otherwise. Although apparently, asperity is--"

"You warm my heart," drawled Starling mockingly.

"All under the best of intentions, I assure y--"

"Doctor, some of the worst shit on this planet has been done 'under the best of intentions' as you say. And I don't think it was a coincidence that you chose to phrase it that way."

"You give me far too much credit. As I was saying--"

"You know, I'm really far too clever for you to try to change the topic without me catching on. Surely you've come to realise that before."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Immensely."

"Are you mocking me?"

"You've only just now noticed?"

"That was not a rhetorical question."

"I didn't interpret it as such."

"Then do not answer the question with another question."

"You're giving me lessons now?" she tilted her head and gave him a challenging look, trying to see through the slight alcoholic glaze that had begun to swarm over her vision.

"Your behaviour has become appallingly rude, Clarice," warned the doctor lightly.

"Is that a threat?"

"Make of it what you will."

"Doesn't matter. It's empty anyway."

"I never make empty threats."

"The bottle," Starling shook some of good ol' Cuervo at him. "I meant the bottle. It's empty." She took a better look at the three inches or so of liquid at the bottom. "Or nearly empty. Close enough."

Lecter smirked at her.

"Okay, strange smile on serial killer's face. Should I start fearing for my life?" said Starling, a bit too flippantly. "Forget what I said, can we change the topic now?" she added when his expression did not change.

"And what subject might you wish to converse about, Clarice?" said Lecter, all accommodating serenity and condescension. 

"I don't know, anything."

"Shall we discuss you, Clarice. From what I remember, women seem to enjoy discussing themselves."

She studied him amusedly, polishing off the last remaining liquor in the bottle. "So let's talk about me, then. What do you think of me? Of my life right now? Cos before, you know, you really seemed to enjoy dissing me and belittling my lifestyle before. Calling me tornado-bait, trailer-camp white trash if memory serves me right."

"Do you really want my honest opinion, Clarice?"

"Sure. Why not? It's not as if I haven't heard it all before. Surprise me, Doctor Lecter. Tell me something you haven't already said. Enthral me with _your_ acumen," she snarked, rolling her r's and drawing out the last sentence. If Starling was consciously aware that she was verbalizing the same phrase to him as he had to her so many years ago in the damp of a Baltimore dungeon she made no notice of it and neither did Lecter enlighten her.

"Very well, then. I shall tell you if only to appease this masochistic streak you've suddenly acquired. Do spare me the schoolgirl tears, however, hmm? It seems to me that at present you are trying to break yourself out of that self-imposed mould you have so willingly placed yourself within. You wish to . . . shake things up a bit. Put some spice into that monotonously boring excuse of what you call a life. This—affair, or whatever it is you have with St. John is simply the little Starling pretending to be a naughty girl and carousing with the bad boy her daddy would never have approved of were he alive. Pity. I would have thought such things were beneath you, osculating in public and draping yourself all over the boy like a bitch in heat. Tell me, Clarice, what other things is that mouth of yours capable of?" 

Starling felt the unwelcome rush of anger scorching her cheeks and making her blood boil. For a moment she contemplated on breaking the bottle over his head and using the jagged slivers to gleefully vivisect the bastard.

Instead, she slapped him. Hard.

She could see the red outline of her palm imprinted on one pale cheek.

The bastard hadn't even flinched. Just stared at her steadily with those disconcerting maroon eyes, asking her the silent question: _Did that **really** make you feel better?_

It didn't. Because Starling knew that whatever happened, however it may happen, she would never win with this man. 

_But then, neither would she lose_.

That last thought unnerved her.

In light of that, she decided that a tactical and hasty retreat would be the best course of action, thereby preserving whatever bits of dignity she had left that she hadn't offered up for him to shred and destroy.

"I really think I should go home now," said Starling, pushing herself off the floor and swaying unsteadily as she got to her feet. Lecter moved to follow. "No, just—stay here, alright? I just gotta look for St. John, he must be worried right now." A flicker in those dark, dark blood eyes that told her he was less than pleased at her answer. Starling wondered how much cheek she could get away with. _How long does it fucking take to piss the hell out of a cannibal?_ Apparently nobody knew as some brave (or unbelievably lucky) soul had yet to come up with an answer to that particular question as the fortunate few who had been privy to the honour of pissing off Hannibal Lecter had ended up being in a condition not fit for the extraction of such golden information.

"_I_ will be the one to escort you to your apartment," he pronounced in a firm tone of voice that told her resistance would be a futile, if not wasted activity.

_Clarice Starling, a.k.a. the immoveable object finally meets the irresistible force_. She nearly choked at the idea. _Lecter the irresistible force. Who woulda thunk?_

Sighing, she acquiesced.

"I'll just go and grab my coat."

**

They walked in companionable – if slightly unnerving – silence for a while. The night was warm, hardly unusual for this time of the year, air heavy with moisture and the promise of rain.

"Well, this is me," said Starling as they came to a halt at the entrance to her apartment complex.

"May I walk you up, Clarice?" enquired the doctor in an oddly courteous tone considering everything they had been through that night.

Starling looked at him wryly. "Would anything I say dissuade you?"

"No."

She shook her head in mock exasperation. "Then you didn't have to ask."

Lecter smiled while he held his hand to the small of her back as they went into the apartelle together. And not a moment too soon, for almost immediately after the door had shut behind them, the raindrops started to pour in that soft but steady drizzle that meant it was going to last the whole night and possibly a good part of the next day.

They ascended the stairs quietly, aware of the late hour and Starling really didn't want to disturb her other neighbours. It wasn't as if she saw them often enough for them to actually be able to locate her and take her to task for making such a racket but she figured there was nothing to lose by giving them their quiet anyway. That and St. John telling her that Mrs. Johnson who lived in the apartment across the hall had apparently smacked him upside the head with her cane for daring to stagger out with a raging hangover at six thirty in the morning, his boots thumping heavily on the wooden floor.

Stopping in front of her door, Starling fumbled to fit the key into the lock, her coordination still slightly tequila-impaired. She mentally cursed herself for bring gifted with clear speech even when tipsy when she unmistakably had to trade in dexterity for it. Starling had the distinct feeling she got the wrong end of the bargain.

"Clarice?"

"Yeah?" she replied absently, concentrating on getting her door open.

"Mso--" he mumbled.

"Wha?"

Lecter cleared his throat and tugged a little at his cuffs. "I said that I was sorry. My remarks earlier were entirely uncalled for. I did not have any justification at all to instigate a verbal attack on your person. Not when you were evidently doing your best to be civil to me and--" he smiled "--playing nurse."

"Oh," said Starling eloquently just as the key slid into the lock, regarding the doctor with an expression not unlike that of a poleaxed heifer.

"And Clarice? I rarely – if ever – apologise. Take this moment and store it for posterity," he added in a lower tone of voice. 

"Well then in that case I'll keep it in mind. Apology accepted, doctor," said Starling, regaining a modicum of composure, her lips curving into a slow and unconsciously sensual smile. Her hand lingered on the doorknob as if she were hesitant to take leave of his company.

Hannibal Lecter, though no stranger to alcohol, could not decide whether the intoxication he felt at the moment was due to the amount of liquor he imbibed or whether it was simply (if there was anything simple about her) because of the presence of the woman before him. A wise man however, he decided that since fortune had presented him with an unexpected opportunity which he didn't really deserve, the last thing he should be doing is correcting the mistake.

He leaned down and touched his mouth to hers.

**

Somewhere on Third Street, the Garden District. 11:45 p.m. 

It was raining again. St. John couldn't believe it. Luck wasn't a lady, luck was a bitch.

"Have you given Clarice a ring yet?" he asked Ruiz, raising his voice to be heard over the crackling din of the handheld radios simultaneously being used.

"Yes, but her mobile's out of coverage," the other man lied smoothly. Ruiz wore over his casual evening attire a dark windbreaker that bore the words "Crime Scene Investigator" stencilled onto the back. Other, similarly outfitted men swarmed the house's grounds.

St. John's white shirt was slowly getting soaked as he stared absently at the fanciful elegance of white Greek Revival mansion before him.

He took out his mobile and dialled Starling's number, frowning as he got her voicemail. Ringing her apartment yielded the same results and after the twelfth attempt, he felt very certain that the next time he stayed over at her place he would smash that infernal answering machine of hers.

He dialled her mobile once more.

**

Corner of Bourbon and Esplanade. 11:48 p.m. 

Fierce. Gentle. Fire. Ice. A veritable cacophony of contradicting sensation imploded upon her, making her head spin in a manner she hadn't felt in a while. For that matter, she had never, ever even felt it before, with anyone else. This wasn't the mad, bad, and dangerous to even contemplate excitement of a Malcolm kiss. His kiss made her toes curl and her cheeks blush. But being kissed by Hannibal Lecter was like having those oh-so-secretive silken tendrils of fire and desire creep their way stealthily about her entire nervous system, looping around Starling's propriety and systematically destroying all vestiges of control she might have at one time possessed. The pressure of his mouth on hers corrupted all her norms and twisted them to his fancy, in the process undergoing a rebirth of everything she believed to be the median.

His hands were tangling into her hair, wrapping around her neck, thumbs lazily stoking the thin skin at her collarbone feeling for her pulse points and Starling was _on fire_.

It was thrilling. It was exciting. It was electrifying, exhilarating and any other superlative adjective you would care to attach to it. Thoughts of champagne supernovas in the sky were popping in her head as Lecter determinedly, languidly and so very _thoroughly_, mapped the hollows of her mouth with the expertly meticulous authority of a man who has kissed a thousand women and more. In some part of her rapidly misfiring brain, she doubted the accuracy of that suddenly coughed up figure. But why think of such things when you were being slowly, deliberately and completely driven out of your mind by the sheer intensity of the man's delightful ministrations?

He tasted like brandy. For some strange reason, he tasted like brandy, not the tequila from the bottle they were sharing a while ago. Brandy and something else. A darker, spicy and unidentifiable taste, which she presumed to be him that she knew, would continue to cling to the back of her throat long after this was over. Not that she wanted it to be over. In fact, she was surprised that she could still think much less make conscious decisions.

One last gentle tug at her lower lip before he stepped back, cocking his head to one side, a slight smile upon his impassive features. "Good night, Officer Starling." 

He smoothed his black suit and turned around, once more walking away.

She touched the fingertips of her right hand to her mouth, still tingling from his kiss. She imagined she could still taste him in the air.

Starling was left with the indubitable feeling that her brain had just been _Lecterfried_.

**

_Anisky – You wouldn't happen to have some leftover Polyjuice, would you?_

_Marcus Aurelius – Barbecue time's been rescheduled. :D_

_A/N: With thanks to the superbly talented Screaming Ferret for the term Lecterfried. The lyrics of Oasis have been borrowed and twisted as needed to embellish. Nietzsche, Nabokov and Terry Pratchett have been quoted and butchered. _

_"Little. Tiny. Bitch. Lap dog."  Sugar & Spice by Wendi_

_"You envy me my educated tastes."_

_"That I will not honour with a response."_

_-The Beekeeper's Apprentice by Laurie R. King. Sorry, I don't have my copy with me right now so I can't verify if those were really the words, but I think they are._

_Alright, that was it, peeps! Please R/R and tell me what you think. Flames will be used to light Snape's cauldron and if possible please direct to dictalicence@yahoo.co.uk._


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